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Death At The Excelsior
By
P.G. Wodehouse
Contents
I
The room was the
typical bedroom of the typical boarding-house, furnished, insofar as it cou=
ld
be said to be furnished at all, with a severe simplicity. It contained two
beds, a pine chest of drawers, a strip of faded carpet, and a wash basin. B=
ut
there was that on the floor which set this room apart from a thousand rooms=
of
the same kind. Flat on his back, with his hands tightly clenched and one leg
twisted oddly under him and with his teeth gleaming through his grey beard =
in a
horrible grin, Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyes that =
saw
nothing.
Until a moment
before, he had had the little room all to himself. But now two people were
standing just inside the door, looking down at him. One was a large policem=
an,
who twisted his helmet nervously in his hands. The other was a tall, gaunt =
old
woman in a rusty black dress, who gazed with pale eyes at the dead man. Her
face was quite expressionless.
The woman was Mrs.
Pickett, owner of the Excelsior Boarding-House. The policeman's name was
Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to the riotous element of the
waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in the presence of death. He drew in =
his
breath, wiped his forehead, and whispered: "Look at his eyes, ma'am!&q=
uot;
Mrs. Pickett had =
not
spoken a word since she had brought the policeman into the room, and she did
not do so now. Constable Grogan looked at her quickly. He was afraid of Mot=
her
Pickett, as was everybody else along the waterfront. Her silence, her pale
eyes, and the quiet decisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old
salts who patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that
little community of sailormen.
"That's just=
how
I found him," said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speak loudly, but her voi=
ce
made the policeman start.
He wiped his fore=
head
again. "It might have been apoplexy," he hazarded.
Mrs. Pickett said
nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and a young man entered,
carrying a black bag.
"Good mornin=
g,
Mrs. Pickett. I was told that--Good Lord!" The young doctor dropped to=
his
knees beside the body and raised one of the arms. After a moment he lowered=
it
gently to the floor, and shook his head in grim resignation.
"He's been d=
ead
for hours," he announced. "When did you find him?"
"Twenty minu=
tes
back," replied the old woman. "I guess he died last night. He nev=
er
would be called in the morning. Said he liked to sleep on. Well, he's got h=
is
wish."
"What did he=
die
of, sir?" asked the policeman.
"It's imposs=
ible
to say without an examination," the doctor answered. "It looks li=
ke a
stroke, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. It might be a coronary attack, but I
happen to know his blood pressure was normal, and his heart sound. He calle=
d in
to see me only a week ago, and I examined him thoroughly. But sometimes you=
can
be deceived. The inquest will tell us." He eyed the body almost
resentfully. "I can't understand it. The man had no right to drop dead
like this. He was a tough old sailor who ought to have been good for another
twenty years. If you want my honest opinion--though I can't possibly be cer=
tain
until after the inquest--I should say he had been poisoned."
"How would h=
e be
poisoned?" asked Mrs. Pickett quietly.
"That's more
than I can tell you. There's no glass about that he could have drunk it fro=
m.
He might have got it in capsule form. But why should he have done it? He was
always a pretty cheerful sort of old man, wasn't he?"
"Yes, sir,&q=
uot;
said the Constable. "He had the name of being a joker in these parts. =
Kind
of sarcastic, they tell me, though he never tried it on me."
"He must have
died quite early last night," said the doctor. He turned to Mrs. Picke=
tt.
"What's become of Captain Muller? If he shares this room he ought to be
able to tell us something about it."
"Captain Mul=
ler
spent the night with some friends at Portsmouth," said Mrs. Pickett.
"He left right after supper, and hasn't returned."
The doctor stared
thoughtfully about the room, frowning.
"I don't like
it. I can't understand it. If this had happened in India I should have said=
the
man had died from some form of snakebite. I was out there two years, and I'=
ve
seen a hundred cases of it. The poor devils all looked just like this. But =
the
thing's ridiculous. How could a man be bitten by a snake in a Southampton
waterfront boarding-house? Was the door locked when you found him, Mrs.
Pickett?"
Mrs. Pickett nodd=
ed.
"I opened it with my own key. I had been calling to him and he didn't
answer, so I guessed something was wrong."
The Constable spo=
ke:
"You ain't touched anything, ma'am? They're always very particular abo=
ut
that. If the doctor's right, and there's been anything up, that's the first
thing they'll ask."
"Everything's
just as I found it."
"What's that=
on
the floor beside him?" the doctor asked.
"Only his ha=
rmonica.
He liked to play it of an evening in his room. I've had some complaints abo=
ut
it from some of the gentlemen, but I never saw any harm, so long as he didn=
't
play it too late."
"Seems as if=
he
was playing it when--it happened," Constable Grogan said. "That d=
on't
look much like suicide, sir."
"I didn't sa=
y it
was suicide."
Grogan whistled.
"You don't think----"
"I'm not
thinking anything--until after the inquest. All I say is that it's queer.&q=
uot;
Another aspect of=
the
matter seemed to strike the policeman. "I guess this ain't going to do=
the
Excelsior any good, ma'am," he said sympathetically.
Mrs. Pickett shru=
gged
her shoulders.
"I suppose I=
had
better go and notify the coroner," said the doctor.
He went out, and
after a momentary pause the policeman followed him. Constable Grogan was not
greatly troubled with nerves, but he felt a decided desire to be somewhere
where he could not see the dead man's staring eyes.
Mrs. Pickett rema=
ined
where she was, looking down at the still form on the floor. Her face was
expressionless, but inwardly she was tormented and alarmed. It was the first
time such a thing as this had happened at the Excelsior, and, as Constable
Grogan had hinted, it was not likely to increase the attractiveness of the
house in the eyes of possible boarders. It was not the threatened pecuniary
loss which was troubling her. As far as money was concerned, she could have
lived comfortably on her savings, for she was richer than most of her frien=
ds
supposed. It was the blot on the escutcheon of the Excelsior--the stain on =
its reputation--which
was tormenting her.
The Excelsior was=
her
life. Starting many years before, beyond the memory of the oldest boarder, =
she
had built up the model establishment, the fame of which had been carried to
every corner of the world. Men spoke of it as a place where you were fed we=
ll,
cleanly housed, and where petty robbery was unknown.
Such was the chor=
us
of praise that it is not likely that much harm could come to the Excelsior =
from
a single mysterious death but Mother Pickett was not consoling herself with
such reflections.
She looked at the
dead man with pale, grim eyes. Out in the hallway the doctor's voice further
increased her despair. He was talking to the police on the telephone, and s=
he
could distinctly hear his every word.
II
The offices of Mr.
Paul Snyder's Detective Agency in New Oxford Street had grown in the course=
of
a dozen years from a single room to an impressive suite bright with polished
wood, clicking typewriters, and other evidences of success. Where once Mr.
Snyder had sat and waited for clients and attended to them himself, he now =
sat
in his private office and directed eight assistants.
He had just accep=
ted
a case--a case that might be nothing at all or something exceedingly big. It
was on the latter possibility that he had gambled. The fee offered was, jud=
ged
by his present standards of prosperity, small. But the bizarre facts, coupl=
ed
with something in the personality of the client, had won him over. He brisk=
ly
touched the bell and requested that Mr. Oakes should be sent in to him.
Elliot Oakes was a
young man who both amused and interested Mr. Snyder, for though he had only
recently joined the staff, he made no secret of his intention of
revolutionizing the methods of the agency. Mr. Snyder himself, in common wi=
th
most of his assistants, relied for results on hard work and plenty of common
sense. He had never been a detective of the showy type. Results had justifi=
ed
his methods, but he was perfectly aware that young Mr. Oakes looked on him =
as a
dull old man who had been miraculously favored by luck.
Mr. Snyder had
selected Oakes for the case in hand principally because it was one where
inexperience could do no harm, and where the brilliant guesswork which Oakes
preferred to call his inductive reasoning might achieve an unexpected succe=
ss.
Another motive
actuated Mr. Snyder in his choice. He had a strong suspicion that the condu=
ct
of this case was going to have the beneficial result of lowering Oakes'
self-esteem. If failure achieved this end, Mr. Snyder felt that failure, th=
ough
it would not help the Agency, would not be an unmixed ill.
The door opened a=
nd
Oakes entered tensely. He did everything tensely, partly from a natural ner=
vous
energy, and partly as a pose. He was a lean young man, with dark eyes and a
thin-lipped mouth, and he looked quite as much like a typical detective as =
Mr.
Snyder looked like a comfortable and prosperous stock broker.
"Sit down,
Oakes," said Mr. Snyder. "I've got a job for you."
Oakes sank into a
chair like a crouching leopard, and placed the tips of his fingers together=
. He
nodded curtly. It was part of his pose to be keen and silent.
"I want you =
to
go to this address"--Mr. Snyder handed him an envelope--"and look
around. The address on that envelope is of a sailors' boarding-house down in
Southampton. You know the sort of place--retired sea captains and so on live
there. All most respectable. In all its history nothing more sensational has
ever happened than a case of suspected cheating at halfpenny nap. Well, a m=
an
had died there."
"Murdered?&q=
uot;
Oakes asked.
"I don't kno=
w.
That's for you to find out. The coroner left it open. 'Death by Misadventur=
e'
was the verdict, and I don't blame him. I don't see how it could have been
murder. The door was locked on the inside, so nobody could have got in.&quo=
t;
"The
window?"
"The window =
was
open, granted. But the room is on the second floor. Anyway, you may dismiss=
the
window. I remember the old lady saying there was a bar across it, and that
nobody could have squeezed through."
Oakes' eyes
glistened. He was interested. "What was the cause of death?" he
asked.
Mr. Snyder coughe=
d.
"Snake bite," he said.
Oakes' careful ca=
lm
deserted him. He uttered a cry of astonishment. "Why, that's
incredible!"
"It's the
literal truth. The medical examination proved that the fellow had been kill=
ed
by snake poison--cobra, to be exact, which is found principally in India.&q=
uot;
"Cobra!"=
;
"Just so. In=
a
Southampton boarding-house, in a room with a locked door, this man was stun=
g by
a cobra. To add a little mystification to the limpid simplicity of the affa=
ir,
when the door was opened there was no sign of any cobra. It couldn't have g=
ot
out through the door, because the door was locked. It couldn't have got out=
of
the window, because the window was too high up, and snakes can't jump. And =
it couldn't
have gotten up the chimney, because there was no chimney. So there you have
it."
He looked at Oakes
with a certain quiet satisfaction. It had come to his ears that Oakes had b=
een
heard to complain of the infantile nature and unworthiness of the last two
cases to which he had been assigned. He had even said that he hoped some da=
y to
be given a problem which should be beyond the reasoning powers of a child of
six. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that Oakes was about to get his wish.
"I should li=
ke
further details," said Oakes, a little breathlessly.
"You had bet=
ter
apply to Mrs. Pickett, who owns the boarding-house," Mr. Snyder said.
"It was she who put the case in my hands. She is convinced that it is
murder. But, if we exclude ghosts, I don't see how any third party could ha=
ve
taken a hand in the thing at all. However, she wanted a man from this agenc=
y,
and was prepared to pay for him, so I promised her I would send one. It is =
not
our policy to turn business away."
He smiled wryly.
"In pursuance of that policy I want you to go and put up at Mrs. Picke=
tt's
boarding house and do your best to enhance the reputation of our agency. I
would suggest that you pose as a ship's chandler or something of that sort.=
You
will have to be something maritime or they'll be suspicious of you. And if =
your
visit produces no other results, it will, at least, enable you to make the
acquaintance of a very remarkable woman. I commend Mrs. Pickett to your not=
ice.
By the way, she says she will help you in your investigations."
Oakes laughed
shortly. The idea amused him.
"It's a mist=
ake
to scoff at amateur assistance, my boy," said Mr. Snyder in the
benevolently paternal manner which had made a score of criminals refuse to
believe him a detective until the moment when the handcuffs snapped on their
wrists. "Crime investigation isn't an exact science. Success or failure
depends in a large measure on applied common sense, and the possession of a
great deal of special information. Mrs. Pickett knows certain things which
neither you nor I know, and it's just possible that she may have some stray
piece of information which will provide the key to the entire mystery."=
;
Oakes laughed aga=
in.
"It is very kind of Mrs. Pickett," he said, "but I prefer to
trust to my own methods." Oakes rose, his face purposeful. "I'd
better be starting at once," he said. "I'll send you reports from=
time
to time."
"Good. The m=
ore
detailed the better," said Mr. Snyder genially. "I hope your visi=
t to
the Excelsior will be pleasant. And cultivate Mrs. Pickett. She's worth
while."
The door closed, =
and
Mr. Snyder lighted a fresh cigar. "Dashed young fool," he murmure=
d,
as he turned his mind to other matters.
III
A day later Mr.
Snyder sat in his office reading a typewritten report. It appeared to be of=
a
humorous nature, for, as he read, chuckles escaped him. Finishing the last
sheet he threw his head back and laughed heartily. The manuscript had not b=
een
intended by its author for a humorous effort. What Mr. Snyder had been read=
ing
was the first of Elliott Oakes' reports from the Excelsior. It read as foll=
ows:
I am sorry to be unabl=
e to
report any real progress. I have formed several th=
eories
which I will put forward later, but at present I cannot =
say
that I am hopeful.
Directly I arrived her=
e I
sought out Mrs. Pickett, explained who I was, and
requested her to furnish me with any further information which=
might
be of service to me. She is a strange, silent woman, who
impressed me as having very little intelligence. Your
suggestion that I should avail myself of her assistance se=
ems
more curious than ever, now that I have seen her.
The whole affair seems=
to me
at the moment of writing quite inexplicable. Ass=
uming
that this Captain Gunner was murdered, there appears to =
have
been no motive for the crime whatsoever. I have made caref=
ul
inquiries about him, and find that he was a man of fifty-fi=
ve;
had spent nearly forty years of his life at sea, the last =
dozen
in command of his own ship; was of a somewhat overbear=
ing
disposition, though with a fund of rough humour; had trave=
lled
all over the world, and had been an inmate of the Excelsior =
for
about ten months. He had a small annuity, and no other mone=
y at
all, which disposes of money as the motive for the crime.
In my character of Jam=
es
Burton, a retired ship's chandler, I have mixed with the ot=
her
boarders, and have heard all they have to say about the affair.=
I
gather that the deceased was by no means popular. He appea=
rs to
have had a bitter tongue, and I have not met one man who s=
eems
to regret his death. On the other hand, I have heard nothing
which would suggest that he had any active and violent enemies. =
He was
simply the unpopular boarder--there is always one in eve=
ry
boarding-house--but nothing more.
I have seen a good dea=
l of
the man who shared his room--another sea captain, named
Muller. He is a big, silent person, and it is not easy to get h=
im to
talk. As regards the death of Captain Gunner he can tell me no=
thing.
It seems that on the night of the tragedy he was away at
Portsmouth with some friends. All I have got from him is some infor=
mation
as to Captain Gunner's habits, which leads nowhere. The dead=
man
seldom drank, except at night when he would take some whisky.=
His
head was not strong, and a little of the spirit was enough=
to
make him semi-intoxicated, when he would be hilarious and oft=
en
insulting. I gather that Muller found him a difficult roommat=
e, but
he is one of those placid persons who can put up with anyth=
ing.
He and Gunner were in the habit of playing draughts together=
every
night in their room, and Gunner had a harmonica which he
played frequently. Apparently, he was playing it very soon befo=
re he
died, which is significant, as seeming to dispose of the id=
ea of
suicide.
As I say, I have one o=
r two
theories, but they are in a very nebulous state. T=
he
most plausible is that on one of his visits to India--I have
ascertained that he made several voyages there--Captain Gu=
nner
may in some way have fallen foul of the natives. The =
fact
that he certainly died of the poison of an Indian snake supp=
orts
this theory. I am making inquiries as to the movements of
several Indian sailors who were here in their ships at th=
e time
of the tragedy.
I have another theory.=
Does
Mrs. Pickett know more about this affair than =
she
appears to? I may be wrong in my estimate of her mental
qualities. Her apparent stupidity may be cunning. But here
again, the absence of motive brings me up against a dead wa=
ll. I
must confess that at present I do not see my way clearly.
However, I will write again shortly.
Mr. Snyder derived
the utmost enjoyment from the report. He liked the substance of it, and abo=
ve
all, he was tickled by the bitter tone of frustration which characterized i=
t.
Oakes was baffled, and his knowledge of Oakes told him that the sensation of
being baffled was gall and wormwood to that high-spirited young man. Whatev=
er
might be the result of this investigation, it would teach him the virtue of
patience.
He wrote his
assistant a short note:
Dear Oakes,
Your report received. =
You
certainly seem to have got the hard case which, I hea=
r, you
were pining for. Don't build too much on plausible moti=
ves in
a case of this sort. Fauntleroy, the London murderer, =
killed
a woman for no other reason than that she had thick ank=
les.
Many years ago, I myself was on a case where a man murde=
red an
intimate friend because of a dispute about a bet. My
experience is that five murderers out of ten act on the whim o=
f the
moment, without anything which, properly speaking, you cou=
ld call
a motive at all.
Yours very cordially, =
Paul Snyder
P. S. I don't think mu=
ch of
your Pickett theory. However, you're in charge. I wish=
you
luck.
IV
Young Mr. Oakes w=
as
not enjoying himself. For the first time in his life, the self-confidence w=
hich
characterized all his actions seemed to be failing him. The change had taken
place almost overnight. The fact that the case had the appearance of presen=
ting
the unusual had merely stimulated him at first. But then doubts had crept in
and the problem had begun to appear insoluble.
True, he had only
just taken it up, but something told him that, for all the progress he was
likely to make, he might just as well have been working on it steadily for a
month. He was completely baffled. And every moment which he spent in the
Excelsior Boarding-House made it clearer to him that that infernal old woman
with the pale eyes thought him an incompetent fool. It was that, more than
anything, which made him acutely conscious of his lack of success. His nerv=
es
were being sorely troubled by the quiet scorn of Mrs. Pickett's gaze. He be=
gan
to think that perhaps he had been a shade too self-confident and abrupt in =
the
short interview which he had had with her on his arrival.
As might have been
expected, his first act, after his brief interview with Mrs. Pickett, was to
examine the room where the tragedy had taken place. The body was gone, but
otherwise nothing had been moved.
Oakes belonged to=
the
magnifying-glass school of detection. The first thing he did on entering the
room was to make a careful examination of the floor, the walls, the furnitu=
re,
and the windowsill. He would have hotly denied the assertion that he did th=
is
because it looked well, but he would have been hard put to it to advance any
other reason.
If he discovered
anything, his discoveries were entirely negative, and served only to deepen=
the
mystery of the case. As Mr. Snyder had said, there was no chimney, and nobo=
dy
could have entered through the locked door.
There remained the
window. It was small, and apprehensiveness, perhaps, of the possibility of
burglars, had caused the proprietress to make it doubly secure with an iron
bar. No human being could have squeezed his way through it.
It was late that
night that he wrote and dispatched to headquarters the report which had amu=
sed
Mr. Snyder.
V
Two days later Mr.
Snyder sat at his desk, staring with wide, unbelieving eyes at a telegram he
had just received. It read as follows:
HAVE SOLVED GUNN=
ER
MYSTERY. RETURNING.... OAKES.
Mr. Snyder narrow=
ed
his eyes and rang the bell. "Send Mr. Oakes to me directly he
arrives," he said.
He was pained to =
find
that his chief emotion was one of bitter annoyance. The swift solution of s=
uch
an apparently insoluble problem would reflect the highest credit on the Age=
ncy,
and there were picturesque circumstances connected with the case which would
make it popular with the newspapers and lead to its being given a great dea=
l of
publicity.
Yet, in spite of = all this, Mr. Snyder was annoyed. He realized now how large a part the desire to reduce Oakes' self-esteem had played with him. He further realized, looking= at the thing honestly, that he had been firmly convinced that the young man wo= uld not come within a mile of a reasonable solution of the mystery. He had desi= red only that his failure would prove a valuable educational experience for him. For he believed that failure at this particular point in his career would m= ake Oakes a more valuable asset to the Agency. But now here Oakes was, within a ridiculously short space of time, returning to the fold, not humble and defeated, but triumphant. Mr. Snyder looked forward with apprehension to the young man's probable demeanor under the intoxicating influence of victory.<= o:p>
His apprehensions
were well grounded. He had barely finished the third of the series of cigar=
s,
which, like milestones, marked the progress of his afternoon, when the door
opened and young Oakes entered. Mr. Snyder could not repress a faint moan at
the sight of him. One glance was enough to tell him that his worst fears we=
re
realised.
"I got your
telegram," said Mr. Snyder.
Oakes nodded.
"It surprised you, eh?" he asked.
Mr. Snyder resent=
ed
the patronizing tone of the question, but he had resigned himself to be
patronized, and keep his anger in check.
"Yes," =
he
replied, "I must say it did surprise me. I didn't gather from your rep=
ort
that you had even found a clue. Was it the Indian theory that turned the
trick?"
Oakes laughed
tolerantly. "Oh, I never really believed that preposterous theory for =
one
moment. I just put it in to round out my report. I hadn't begun to think ab=
out
the case then--not really think."
Mr. Snyder, nearly
exploding with wrath, extended his cigar-case. "Light up, and tell me =
all
about it," he said, controlling his anger.
"Well, I won=
't
say I haven't earned this," said Oakes, puffing away. He let the ash of
his cigar fall delicately to the floor--another action which seemed signifi=
cant
to his employer. As a rule, his assistants, unless particularly pleased with
themselves, used the ashtray.
"My first ac=
t on
arriving," Oakes said, "was to have a talk with Mrs. Pickett. A v=
ery
dull old woman."
"Curious. She
struck me as rather intelligent."
"Not on your
life. She gave me no assistance whatever. I then examined the room where the
death had taken place. It was exactly as you described it. There was no
chimney, the door had been locked on the inside, and the one window was very
high up. At first sight, it looked extremely unpromising. Then I had a chat
with some of the other boarders. They had nothing of any importance to
contribute. Most of them simply gibbered. I then gave up trying to get help
from the outside, and resolved to rely on my own intelligence."
He smiled
triumphantly. "It is a theory of mine, Mr. Snyder, which I have found
valuable that, in nine cases out of ten, remarkable things don't happen.&qu=
ot;
"I don't qui=
te
follow you there," Mr. Snyder interrupted.
"I will put =
it
another way, if you like. What I mean is that the simplest explanation is
nearly always the right one. Consider this case. It seemed impossible that
there should have been any reasonable explanation of the man's death. Most =
men
would have worn themselves out guessing at wild theories. If I had started =
to
do that, I should have been guessing now. As it is--here I am. I trusted to=
my
belief that nothing remarkable ever happens, and I won out."
Mr. Snyder sighed
softly. Oakes was entitled to a certain amount of gloating, but there could=
be
no doubt that his way of telling a story was downright infuriating.
"I believe in
the logical sequence of events. I refuse to accept effects unless they are
preceded by causes. In other words, with all due respect to your possibly
contrary opinions, Mr. Snyder, I simply decline to believe in a murder unle=
ss
there was a motive for it. The first thing I set myself to ascertain was--w=
hat
was the motive for the murder of Captain Gunner? And, after thinking it over
and making every possible inquiry, I decided that there was no motive.
Therefore, there was no murder."
Mr. Snyder's mouth
opened, and he obviously was about to protest. But he appeared to think bet=
ter
of it and Oakes proceeded: "I then tested the suicide theory. What mot=
ive
was there for suicide? There was no motive. Therefore, there was no
suicide."
This time Mr. Sny=
der
spoke. "You haven't been spending the last few days in the wrong house=
by
any chance, have you? You will be telling me next that there wasn't any dead
man."
Oakes smiled.
"Not at all. Captain John Gunner was dead, all right. As the medical e=
vidence
proved, he died of the bite of a cobra. It was a small cobra which came from
Java."
Mr. Snyder stared=
at
him. "How do you know?"
"I do know,
beyond any possibility of doubt."
"Did you see=
the
snake?"
Oakes shook his h=
ead.
"Then, how in
heaven's name----"
"I have enou=
gh
evidence to make a jury convict Mr. Snake without leaving the box."
"Then suppose
you tell me this. How did your cobra from Java get out of the room?"
"By the
window," replied Oakes, impassively.
"How can you possibly explain that? You say yourself that the window was high up."<= o:p>
"Nevertheles=
s,
it got out by the window. The logical sequence of events is proof enough th=
at
it was in the room. It killed Captain Gunner there, and left traces of its
presence outside. Therefore, as the window was the only exit, it must have
escaped by that route. It may have climbed or it may have jumped, but someh=
ow
it got out of that window."
"What do you
mean--it left traces of its presence outside?"
"It killed a=
dog
in the backyard behind the house," Oakes said. "The window of Cap=
tain
Gunner's room projects out over it. It is full of boxes and litter and there
are a few stunted shrubs scattered about. In fact, there is enough cover to
hide any small object like the body of a dog. That's why it was not discove=
red
at first. The maid at the Excelsior came on it the morning after I sent you=
my
report while she was emptying a box of ashes in the yard. It was just an
ordinary stray dog without collar or license. The analyst examined the body,
and found that the dog had died of the bite of a cobra."
"But you did=
n't
find the snake?"
"No. We clea=
ned
out that yard till you could have eaten your breakfast there, but the snake=
had
gone. It must have escaped through the door of the yard, which was standing
ajar. That was a couple of days ago, and there has been no further tragedy.=
In
all likelihood it is dead. The nights are pretty cold now, and it would
probably have died of exposure."
"But, I just
don't understand how a cobra got to Southampton," said the amazed Mr.
Snyder.
"Can't you g=
uess
it? I told you it came from Java."
"How did you
know it did?"
"Captain Mul=
ler
told me. Not directly, but I pieced it together from what he said. It seems
that an old shipmate of Captain Gunner's was living in Java. They correspon=
ded,
and occasionally this man would send the captain a present as a mark of his
esteem. The last present he sent was a crate of bananas. Unfortunately, the
snake must have got in unnoticed. That's why I told you the cobra was a sma=
ll
one. Well, that's my case against Mr. Snake, and short of catching him with=
the
goods, I don't see how I could have made out a stronger one. Don't you agre=
e?"
It went against t=
he
grain for Mr. Snyder to acknowledge defeat, but he was a fair-minded man, a=
nd
he was forced to admit that Oakes did certainly seem to have solved the
impossible.
"I congratul=
ate
you, my boy," he said as heartily as he could. "To be completely
frank, when you started out, I didn't think you could do it. By the way, I
suppose Mrs. Pickett was pleased?"
"If she was,=
she
didn't show it. I'm pretty well convinced she hasn't enough sense to be ple=
ased
at anything. However, she has invited me to dinner with her tonight. I imag=
ine
she'll be as boring as usual, but she made such a point of it, I had to
accept."
VI
For some time aft=
er
Oakes had gone, Mr. Snyder sat smoking and thinking, in embittered meditati=
on.
Suddenly there was brought the card of Mrs. Pickett, who would be grateful =
if
he could spare her a few moments. Mr. Snyder was glad to see Mrs. Pickett. =
He
was a student of character, and she had interested him at their first meeti=
ng.
There was something about her which had seemed to him unique, and he welcom=
ed this
second chance of studying her at close range.
She came in and s=
at
down stiffly, balancing herself on the extreme edge of the chair in which a
short while before young Oakes had lounged so luxuriously.
"How are you,
Mrs. Pickett?" said Mr. Snyder genially. "I'm very glad that you
could find time to pay me a visit. Well, so it wasn't murder after all.&quo=
t;
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"I've just b=
een
talking to Mr. Oakes, whom you met as James Burton," said the detectiv=
e.
"He has told me all about it."
"He told me =
all
about it," said Mrs. Pickett dryly.
Mr. Snyder looked=
at
her inquiringly. Her manner seemed more suggestive than her words.
"A conceited,
headstrong young fool," said Mrs. Pickett.
It was no new pic=
ture
of his assistant that she had drawn. Mr. Snyder had often drawn it himself,=
but
at the present juncture it surprised him. Oakes, in his hour of triumph, su=
rely
did not deserve this sweeping condemnation.
"Did not Mr.
Oakes' solution of the mystery satisfy you, Mrs. Pickett?"
"No!"
"It struck m=
e as
logical and convincing," Mr. Snyder said.
"You may cal=
l it
all the fancy names you please, Mr. Snyder. But Mr. Oakes' solution was not=
the
right one."
"Have you an
alternative to offer?"
Mrs. Pickett
tightened her lips.
"If you have=
, I
should like to hear it."
"You will--at
the proper time."
"What makes =
you
so certain that Mr. Oakes is wrong?"
"He starts o=
ut
with an impossible explanation, and rests his whole case on it. There could=
n't
have been a snake in that room because it couldn't have gotten out. The win=
dow
was too high."
"But surely =
the
evidence of the dead dog?"
Mrs. Pickett look=
ed at
him as if he had disappointed her. "I had always heard you spoken of a=
s a
man with common sense, Mr. Snyder."
"I have alwa=
ys
tried to use common sense."
"Then why are
you trying now to make yourself believe that something happened which could=
not
possibly have happened just because it fits in with something which isn't e=
asy
to explain?"
"You mean th=
at
there is another explanation of the dead dog?" Mr. Snyder asked.
"Not another.
What Mr. Oakes takes for granted is not an explanation. But there is a comm=
on
sense explanation, and if he had not been so headstrong and conceited he mi=
ght
have found it."
"You speak a=
s if
you had found it," chided Mr. Snyder.
"I have.&quo=
t;
Mrs. Pickett leaned forward as she spoke, and stared at him defiantly.
Mr. Snyder starte=
d.
"You have?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"What is
it?"
"You will kn=
ow
before tomorrow. In the meantime try and think it out for yourself. A
successful and prosperous detective agency like yours, Mr. Snyder, ought to=
do
something in return for a fee."
There was somethi=
ng
in her manner so reminiscent of the school teacher reprimanding a recalcitr=
ant
pupil that Mr. Snyder's sense of humor came to his rescue. "We do our
best, Mrs. Pickett," he said. "But you mustn't forget that we are
only human and cannot guarantee results."
Mrs. Pickett did =
not
pursue the subject. Instead, she proceeded to astonish Mr. Snyder by asking=
him
to swear out a warrant for the arrest of a man known to them both on a char=
ge
of murder.
Mr. Snyder's brea=
th
was not often taken away in his own office. As a rule, he received his clie=
nts'
communications calmly, strange as they often were. But at her words he gasp=
ed.
The thought crossed his mind that Mrs. Pickett might well be mentally
unbalanced. The details of the case were fresh in his memory, and he distin=
ctly
recollected that the person she mentioned had been away from the boarding h=
ouse
on the night of Captain Gunner's death, and could, he imagined, produce
witnesses to prove it.
Mrs. Pickett was
regarding him with an unfaltering stare. To all outward appearances, she was
the opposite of unbalanced.
"But you can=
't
swear out a warrant without evidence," he told her.
"I have
evidence," she replied firmly.
"Precisely w=
hat
kind of evidence?" he demanded.
"If I told y=
ou
now you would think that I was out of my mind."
"But, Mrs.
Pickett, do you realize what you are asking me to do? I cannot make this ag=
ency
responsible for the arbitrary arrest of a man on the strength of a single
individual's suspicions. It might ruin me. At the least it would make me a
laughing stock."
"Mr. Snyder,=
you
may use your own judgment whether or not to make the arrest on that warrant.
You will listen to what I have to say, and you will see for yourself how the
crime was committed. If after that you feel that you cannot make the arrest=
I
will accept your decision. I know who killed Captain Gunner," she said.
"I knew it from the beginning. It was like a vision. But I had no proo=
f.
Now things have come to light and everything is clear."
Against his judgm=
ent,
Mr. Snyder was impressed. This woman had the magnetism which makes for
persuasiveness.
"It--it soun=
ds
incredible." Even as he spoke, he remembered that it had long been a
professional maxim of his that nothing was incredible, and he weakened still
further.
"Mr. Snyder,=
I ask
you to swear out that warrant."
The detective gave
in. "Very well," he said.
Mrs. Pickett rose.
"If you will come and dine at my house to-night I think I can prove to=
you
that it will be needed. Will you come?"
"I'll
come," promised Mr. Snyder.
VII
When Mr. Snyder
arrived at the Excelsior and shortly after he was shown into the little pri=
vate
sitting room where he found Oakes, the third guest of the evening unexpecte=
dly
arrived.
Mr. Snyder looked
curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller had a peculiar fascination for hi=
m.
It was not Mr. Snyder's habit to trust overmuch to appearances. But he could
not help admitting that there was something about this man's aspect which
brought Mrs. Pickett's charges out of the realm of the fantastic into that =
of
the possible. There was something odd--an unnatural aspect of gloom--about =
the
man. He bore himself like one carrying a heavy burden. His eyes were dull, =
his
face haggard. The next moment the detective was reproaching himself with al=
lowing
his imagination to run away with his calmer judgment.
The door opened, =
and
Mrs. Pickett came in. She made no apology for her lateness.
To Mr. Snyder one=
of
the most remarkable points about the dinner was the peculiar metamorphosis =
of
Mrs. Pickett from the brooding silent woman he had known to the gracious and
considerate hostess.
Oakes appeared al=
so
to be overcome with surprise, so much so that he was unable to keep his
astonishment to himself. He had come prepared to endure a dull evening abso=
rbed
in grim silence, and he found himself instead opposite a bottle of champagn=
e of
a brand and year which commanded his utmost respect. What was even more
incredible, his hostess had transformed herself into a pleasant old lady wh=
ose
only aim seemed to be to make him feel at home.
Beside each of the
guests' plates was a neat paper parcel. Oakes picked his up, and stared at =
it
in wonderment. "Why, this is more than a party souvenir, Mrs.
Pickett," he said. "It's the kind of mechanical marvel I've always
wanted to have on my desk."
"I'm glad you
like it, Mr. Oakes," Mrs. Pickett said, smiling. "You must not th=
ink
of me simply as a tired old woman whom age has completely defeated. I am an
ambitious hostess. When I give these little parties, I like to make them a
success. I want each of you to remember this dinner."
"I'm sure I
will."
Mrs. Pickett smil=
ed
again. "I think you all will. You, Mr. Snyder." She paused. "=
;And
you, Captain Muller."
To Mr. Snyder the=
re
was so much meaning in her voice as she said this that he was amazed that it
conveyed no warning to Muller. Captain Muller, however, was already drinking
heavily. He looked up when addressed and uttered a sound which might have b=
een
taken for an expression of polite acquiescence. Then he filled his glass ag=
ain.
Mr. Snyder's parc=
el
revealed a watch-charm fashioned in the shape of a tiny, candid-eye camera.
"That," said Mrs. Pickett, "is a compliment to your
profession." She leaned toward the captain. "Mr. Snyder is a dete=
ctive,
Captain Muller."
He looked up. It
seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up his heavy eyes for an insta=
nt.
It came and went, if indeed it came at all, so swiftly that he could not be
certain.
"So?" s=
aid
Captain Muller. He spoke quite evenly, with just the amount of interest whi=
ch
such an announcement would naturally produce.
"Now for you=
rs,
Captain," said Oakes. "I guess it's something special. It's twice=
the
size of mine, anyway."
It may have been
something in the old woman's expression as she watched Captain Muller slowly
tearing the paper that sent a thrill of excitement through Mr. Snyder.
Something seemed to warn him of the approach of a psychological moment. He =
bent
forward eagerly.
There was a stran=
gled
gasp, a thump, and onto the table from the captain's hands there fell a lit=
tle
harmonica. There was no mistaking the look on Muller's face now. His cheeks
were like wax, and his eyes, so dull till then, blazed with a panic and hor=
ror
which he could not repress. The glasses on the table rocked as he clutched =
at
the cloth.
Mrs. Pickett spok=
e.
"Why, Captain Muller, has it upset you? I thought that, as his best
friend, the man who shared his room, you would value a memento of Captain
Gunner. How fond you must have been of him for the sight of his harmonica t=
o be
such a shock."
The captain did n=
ot
speak. He was staring fascinated at the thing on the table. Mrs. Pickett tu=
rned
to Mr. Snyder. Her eyes, as they met his, held him entranced.
"Mr. Snyder,=
as
a detective, you will be interested in a curious and very tragic affair whi=
ch
happened in this house a few days ago. One of my boarders, Captain Gunner, =
was
found dead in his room. It was the room which he shared with Captain Muller=
. I
am very proud of the reputation of my house, Mr. Snyder, and it was a blow =
to
me that this should have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, =
and
they sent me a stupid boy, with nothing to recommend him except his belief =
in
himself. He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed by a snake
which had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knew that Captain
Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, Captain Muller? This will inte=
rest
you, as you were such a friend of his."
The captain did n=
ot
answer. He was staring straight before him, as if he saw something invisibl=
e in
eyes forever closed in death.
"Yesterday we
found the body of a dog. It had been killed, as Captain Gunner had been, by=
the
poison of a snake. The boy from the agency said that this was conclusive. He
said that the snake had escaped from the room after killing Captain Gunner =
and
had in turn killed the dog. I knew that to be impossible, for, if there had
been a snake in that room it could not have made its escape."
Her eyes flashed,=
and
became remorselessly accusing. "It was not a snake that killed Captain
Gunner. It was a cat. Captain Gunner had a friend who hated him. One day, in
opening a crate of bananas, this friend found a snake. He killed it, and
extracted the poison. He knew Captain Gunner's habits. He knew that he play=
ed a
harmonica. This man also had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a
harmonica. He had often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and
scratch him when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with the =
poison.
And then he left it in the room with Captain Gunner. He knew what would
happen."
Oakes and Mr. Sny=
der
were on their feet. Captain Muller had not moved. He sat there, his fingers
gripping the cloth. Mrs. Pickett rose and went to a closet. She unlocked the
door. "Kitty!" she called. "Kitty! Kitty!"
A black cat ran s=
wiftly
out into the room. With a clatter and a crash of crockery and a ringing of
glass the table heaved, rocked and overturned as Muller staggered to his fe=
et.
He threw up his hands as if to ward something off. A choking cry came from =
his
lips. "Gott! Gott!"
Mrs. Pickett's vo=
ice
rang through the room, cold and biting: "Captain Muller, you murdered
Captain Gunner!"
The captain
shuddered. Then mechanically he replied: "Gott! Yes, I killed him.&quo=
t;
"You heard, =
Mr.
Snyder," said Mrs. Pickett. "He has confessed before witnesses. T=
ake
him away."
Muller allowed
himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr. Snyder's grip felt limp.
Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something from the debris on the floor. She r=
ose,
holding the harmonica.
"You are
forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller," she said.
The profession of Mr. James
("Spider") Buffin was pocket-picking. His hobby was revenge. James
had no objection to letting the sun go down on his wrath. Indeed, it was af=
ter
dark that he corrected his numerous enemies most satisfactorily. It was on a
dark night, while he was settling a small score against one Kelly, a mere
acquaintance, that he first fell foul of Constable Keating, whose beat took=
him
through the regions which James most frequented.
James, having
"laid for" Mr. Kelly, met him in a murky side-street down Clerken=
well
way, and attended to his needs with a sand-bag.
It was here that
Constable Keating first came prominently into his life. Just as James, with=
the
satisfying feeling that his duty had been done, was preparing to depart,
Officer Keating, who had been a distant spectator of the affair, charged up=
and
seized him.
It was intolerable
that he should interfere in a purely private falling-out between one gentle=
man
and another, but there was nothing to be done. The policeman weighed close =
upon
fourteen stone, and could have eaten Mr. Buffin. The latter, inwardly seeth=
ing,
went quietly, and in due season was stowed away at the Government's expense=
for
the space of sixty days.
Physically, there=
is
no doubt that his detention did him good. The regular hours and the
substitution of bread and water for his wonted diet improved his health thi=
rty
per cent. It was mentally that he suffered. His was one of those just-as-go=
od
cheap-substitute minds, incapable of harbouring more than one idea at a tim=
e,
and during those sixty days of quiet seclusion it was filled with an
ever-growing resentment against Officer Keating. Every day, as he moved abo=
ut
his appointed tasks, he brooded on his wrongs. Every night was to him but t=
he
end of another day that kept him from settling down to the serious business=
of
Revenge. To be haled to prison for correcting a private enemy with a
sand-bag--that was what stung. In the privacy of his cell he dwelt unceasin=
gly
on the necessity for revenge. The thing began to take on to him the aspect
almost of a Holy Mission, a sort of Crusade.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
The days slipped =
by,
bringing winter to Clerkenwell, and with it Mr. Buffin. He returned to his =
old
haunts one Friday night, thin but in excellent condition. One of the first
acquaintances he met was Officer Keating. The policeman, who had a good mem=
ory
for faces, recognised him, and stopped.
"So you're o=
ut,
young feller?" he said genially. When not in the active discharge of h=
is
professional duties the policeman was a kindly man. He bore Mr. Buffin no
grudge.
"Um," s=
aid
Mr. Buffin.
"Feeling fin=
e,
eh?"
"Um."
"Goin' round=
to
see some of the chaps and pass them the time of day, I shouldn't wonder?&qu=
ot;
"Um."
"Well, you k=
eep
clear of that lot down in Frith Street, young feller. They're no good. And =
if
you get mixed up with them, first thing you know, you'll be in trouble agai=
n.
And you want to keep out of that now."
"Um."
"If you never
get into trouble," said the policeman sententiously, "you'll never
have to get out of it."
"Um," s=
aid
Mr. Buffin. If he had a fault as a conversationalist, it was a certain tend=
ency
to monotony, a certain lack of sparkle and variety in his small-talk.
Constable Keating,
with a dignified but friendly wave of the hand, as one should say, "You
have our leave to depart," went on his way; while Mr. Buffin, raging,
shuffled off in the opposite direction, thinking as hard as his limited men=
tal
equipment would allow him.
His thoughts, whi=
ch
were many and confused, finally composed themselves into some order. He arr=
ived
at a definite conclusion, which was that if the great settlement was to be
carried through successfully it must be done when the policeman was off dut=
y.
Till then he had pictured himself catching Officer Keating in an unguarded
moment on his beat. This, he now saw, was out of the question. On his beat =
the
policeman had no unguarded moments. There was a quiet alertness in his pois=
e, a
danger-signal in itself.
There was only one
thing for Mr. Buffin to do. Greatly as it would go against the grain, he mu=
st
foregather with the man, win his confidence, put himself in a position wher=
e he
would be able to find out what he did with himself when off duty.
The policeman off=
ered
no obstacle to the move. A supreme self-confidence was his leading
characteristic. Few London policemen are diffident, and Mr. Keating was no
exception. It never occurred to him that there could be an ulterior motive
behind Mr. Buffin's advances. He regarded Mr. Buffin much as one regards a =
dog
which one has had to chastise. One does not expect the dog to lie in wait a=
nd bite.
Officer Keating did not expect Mr. Buffin to lie in wait and bite.
So every day, as =
he
strolled on his beat, there sidled up to him the meagre form of Spider Buff=
in.
Every day there greeted him the Spider's "Good-morning, Mr. Keating,&q=
uot;
till the sight of Officer Keating walking solidly along the pavement with
Spider Buffin shuffling along at his side, listening with rapt interest to =
his
views on Life and his hints on Deportment, became a familiar spectacle in
Clerkenwell.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
Mr. Buffin played=
his
part well. In fact, too well. It was on the seventh day that, sidling along=
in
the direction of his favourite place of refreshment, he found himself tappe=
d on
the shoulder. At the same moment an arm, linking itself in his, brought him
gently to a halt. Beside him were standing two of the most eminent of the g=
reat
Frith Street Gang, Otto the Sausage and Rabbit Butler. It was the finger of=
the
Rabbit that had tapped his shoulder. The arm tucked in his was the arm of O=
tto
the Sausage.
"Hi,
Spider," said Mr. Butler, "Sid wants to see you a minute."
The Spider's legs
felt boneless. There was nothing in the words to alarm a man, but his pract=
ised
ear had seemed to detect a certain unpleasant dryness in the speaker's tone.
Sid Marks, the all-powerful leader of the Frith Street Gang, was a youth wh=
ose
company the Spider had always avoided with some care.
The great Sid, se=
ated
in state at a neighbouring hostelry, fixed his visitor with a cold and
questioning eye. Mr. Buffin looked nervous and interrogative. Mr. Marks spo=
ke.
"Your pal
Keating pinched Porky Binns this mornin'," said Sid.
The Spider's hear=
t turned
to water.
"You and that
slop," observed Sid dreamily, "have been bloomin' thick these
days."
Mr. Buffin did not
affect to misunderstand. Sid Marks was looking at him in that nasty way. Ot=
to
the Sausage was looking at him in that nasty way. Rabbit Butler was looking=
at
him in that nasty way. This was an occasion where manly frankness was the
quality most to be aimed at. To be misunderstood in the circles in which Mr.
Buffin moved meant something more than the mere risk of being treated with =
cold
displeasure.
He began to expla=
in
with feverish eagerness.
"Strike me,
Sid," he stammered, "it ain't like that. It's all right. Blimey, =
you
don't fink I'm a nark?"
Mr. Marks chewed a
straw in silence.
"I'm layin' =
for
him, Sid," babbled Mr. Buffin. "That's true. Strike me if it ain'=
t.
I'm just tryin' to find out where he goes when he's off duty. He pinched me=
, so
I'm layin' for him."
Mr. Marks perpend=
ed.
Rabbit Butler respectfully gave it as his opinion that it would be well to =
put
Mr. Buffin through it. There was nothing like being on the safe side. By
putting Mr. Buffin through it, argued Rabbit Butler, they would stand to win
either way. If he had "smitched" to Officer Keating about Porky B=
inns
he would deserve it. If he had not--well, it would prevent him doing so on =
some
future occasion. Play for safety, was Mr. Butler's advice, seconded by Otto=
the
Sausage. Mr. Buffin, pale to the lips, thought he had never met two more
unpleasant persons.
The Great Sid, ha=
ving
chewed his straw for a while in silence, delivered judgment. The prisoner
should have the benefit of the doubt this time. His story, however unplausi=
ble,
might possibly be true. Officer Keating undoubtedly had pinched him. That w=
as
in his favour.
"You can hop=
it
this time," he said, "but if you ever do start smitchin', Spider,=
yer
knows what'll happen."
Mr. Buffin withdr=
ew,
quaking.
Matters had now c=
ome
to a head. Unless he very speedily gave proof of his pure and noble intenti=
ons,
life would become extremely unsafe for him. He must act at once. The though=
t of
what would happen should another of the Frith Streeters be pinched before h=
e,
Mr. Buffin, could prove himself innocent of the crime of friendliness with
Officer Keating, turned him cold.
Fate played into =
his
hands. On the very next morning Mr. Keating, all unsuspecting, asked him to=
go
to his home with a message for his wife.
"Tell her,&q=
uot;
said Mr. Keating, "a newspaper gent has given me seats for the play
to-night, and I'll be home at a quarter to seven."
Mr. Buffin felt as
Cromwell must have felt at Dunbar when the Scots left their stronghold on t=
he
hills and came down to the open plain.
The winter had se=
t in
with some severity that year, and Mr. Buffin's toes, as he stood in the sha=
dows
close to the entrance of the villa where Officer Keating lived when off dut=
y,
were soon thoroughly frozen. He did not dare to stamp his feet, for at any
moment now the victim might arrive. And when the victim weighs fourteen sto=
ne,
against the high priest's eight and a half, it behooves the latter to be ci=
rcumspect,
if the sacrifice is to be anything like a success. So Mr. Buffin waited and
froze in silence. It was a painful process, and he added it to the black sc=
ore
which already stood against Officer Keating. Never had his thirst for reven=
ge
been more tormenting. It is doubtful if a strictly logical and impartial ju=
dge
would have held Mr. Keating to blame for the fact that Sid Marks' suspicions
(and all that those suspicions entailed) had fallen upon Mr. Buffin; but the
Spider did so. He felt fiercely resentful against the policeman for placing=
him
in such an unpleasant and dangerous position. As his thoughts ran on the
matter, he twisted his fingers tighter round his stick.
As he did so there
came from down the road the brisk tramp of feet and a cheerful whistling of
"The Wearing of the Green." It is a lugubrious song as a rule, bu=
t,
as rendered by Officer Keating returning home with theatre tickets, it had =
all
the joyousness of a march-tune.
Every muscle in M=
r.
Buffin's body stiffened. He gripped his stick and waited. The road was
deserted. In another moment....
And then, from
nowhere, dark indistinct forms darted out like rats. The whistling stopped =
in
the middle of a bar. A deep-chested oath rang out, and then a confused medl=
ey
of sound, the rasping of feet, a growling almost canine, a sharp yelp, gasp=
s,
and over all the vast voice of Officer Keating threatening slaughter.
For a moment Mr.
Buffin stood incapable of motion. The thing had been so sudden, so unexpect=
ed.
And then, as he realised what was happening, there swept over him in a wave=
a
sense of intolerable injustice. It is not easy to describe his emotions, but
they resembled most nearly those of an inventor whose patent has been
infringed, or an author whose idea has been stolen. For weeks--and weeks th=
at
had seemed like years--he had marked down Officer Keating for his prey. For
weeks he had tortured a mind all unused to thinking into providing him with
schemes for accomplishing his end. He had outraged his nature by being civi=
l to
a policeman. He had risked his life by incurring the suspicions of Sid Mark=
s.
He had bought a stick. And he had waited in the cold till his face was blue=
and
his feet blocks of ice. And now ... now ... after all this ... a crowd of
irresponsible strangers, with no rights in the man whatsoever probably, if =
the
truth were known, filled with mere ignoble desire for his small change, had
dared to rush in and jump his claim before his very eyes.
With one passiona=
te
cry, Mr. Buffin, forgetting his frozen feet, lifted his stick, and galloped
down the road to protect his property....
"That's the
stuff," said a voice. "Pour some more into him, Jerry."
Mr. Buffin opened=
his
eyes. A familiar taste was in his mouth. Somebody of liberal ideas seemed t=
o be
pouring whisky down his throat. Could this be Heaven? He raised his head, a=
nd a
sharp pain shot through it. And with the pain came recollection. He remembe=
red
now, dimly, as if it had all happened in another life, the mad rush down the
road, the momentary pause in the conflict, and then its noisy renewal on a =
more
impressive scale. He remembered striking out left and right with his stick.=
He
remembered the cries of the wounded, the pain of his frozen feet, and final=
ly
the crash of something hard and heavy on his head.
He sat up, and fo=
und
himself the centre of a little crowd. There was Officer Keating, dishevelled
but intact; three other policemen, one of whom was kneeling by his side wit=
h a
small bottle in his hand; and, in the grip of the two were standing two you=
ths.
One was Otto the
Sausage; the other was Rabbit Butler.
The kneeling
policeman was proffering the bottle once more. Mr. Buffin snatched at it. He
felt that it was just what at that moment he needed most.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
He did what he co=
uld.
The magistrate asked for his evidence. He said he had none. He said he thou=
ght
there must be some mistake. With a twisted smile in the direction of the
prisoners, he said that he did not remember having seen either of them at t=
he
combat. He didn't believe they were there at all. He didn't believe they we=
re
capable of such a thing. If there was one man who was less likely to assaul=
t a
policeman than Otto the Sausage, it was Rabbit Butler. The Bench reminded h=
im that
both these innocents had actually been discovered in Officer Keating's gras=
p.
Mr. Buffin smiled a harassed smile, and wiped a drop of perspiration from h=
is
brow.
Officer Keating w=
as
enthusiastic. He described the affair from start to finish. But for Mr. Buf=
fin
he would have been killed. But for Mr. Buffin there would have been no
prisoners in court that day. The world was full of men with more or less go=
lden
hearts, but there was only one Mr. Buffin. Might he shake hands with Mr.
Buffin?
The magistrate ru=
led
that he might. More, he would shake hands with him himself. Summoning Mr.
Buffin behind his desk, he proceeded to do so. If there were more men like =
Mr.
Buffin, London would be a better place. It was the occasional discovery in =
our
midst of ethereal natures like that of Mr. Buffin which made one so confide=
nt
for the future of the race.
The paragon shuff=
led
out. It was bright and sunny in the street, but in Mr. Buffin's heart there=
was
no sunlight. He was not a quick thinker, but he had come quite swiftly to t=
he
conclusion that London was no longer the place for him. Sid Marks had been =
in
court chewing a straw and listening with grave attention to the evidence, a=
nd
for one moment Mr. Buffin had happened to catch his eye. No medical testimo=
ny
as to the unhealthiness of London could have moved him more.
Once round the
corner, he ran. It hurt his head to run, but there were things behind him t=
hat
could hurt his head more than running.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
At the entrance to
the Tube he stopped. To leave the locality he must have money. He felt in h=
is
pockets. Slowly, one by one, he pulled forth his little valuables. His knife
... his revolver ... the magistrate's gold watch ... He inspected them sadl=
y.
They must all go.
He went into a
pawnbroker's shop at the corner of the street. A few moments later, with mo=
ney
in his pockets, he dived into the Tube.
Eve Hendrie sat up in bed. For two =
hours
she had been trying to get to sleep, but without success. Never in her life=
had
she felt more wakeful.
There were two
reasons for this. Her mind was disturbed, and she was very hungry. Neither
sensation was novel to her. Since first she had become paid companion to Mr=
s.
Rastall-Retford there had hardly been a moment when she had not been hungry.
Some time before Mrs. Rastall-Retford's doctor had recommended to that lady=
a
Spartan diet, and in this Eve, as companion, had unwillingly to share. It w=
as
not pleasant for either of them, but at least Mrs. Rastall-Retford had the =
knowledge
that she had earned it by years of honest self-indulgence. Eve had not that
consolation.
Meagre fare,
moreover, had the effect of accentuating Mrs. Rastall-Retford's always rath=
er
pronounced irritability. She was a massive lady, with a prominent forehead,
some half-dozen chins, and a manner towards those in her employment which w=
ould
have been resented in a second mate by the crew of a Western ocean tramp. E=
ven
at her best she was no ray of sunshine about the house. And since the begin=
ning
of the self-denying ordinance she had been at her worst.
But it was not
depression induced by her employer that was disturbing Eve. That was a
permanent evil. What was agitating her so extremely to-night was the unexpe=
cted
arrival of Peter Rayner.
It was Eve's prac=
tice
to tell herself several times a day that she had no sentiment for Peter Ray=
ner
but dislike. She did not attempt to defend her attitude logically, but
nevertheless she clung to it, and to-night, when he entered the drawing-roo=
m,
she had endeavoured to convey by her manner that it was only with the great=
est
difficulty that she remembered him at all, and that, having accomplished th=
at
feat, she now intended to forget him again immediately. And he had grinned =
a cheerful,
affectionate grin, and beamed on her without a break till bedtime.
Before coming as
companion to Mrs. Rastall-Retford Eve had been governess to Hildebrand, aged
six, the son of a Mrs. Elphinstone. It had been, on the whole, a comfortable
situation. She had not liked Mrs. Elphinstone, but Hildebrand had been doci=
le,
and altogether life was quite smooth and pleasant until Mrs. Elphinstone's
brother came for a visit. Peter Rayner was that brother.
There is a type of
man who makes love with the secrecy and sheepish reserve of a cowboy shooti=
ng
up a Wild West saloon. To this class Peter belonged. He fell in love with E=
ve
at sight, and if, at the end of the first day, there was anyone in the house
who was not aware of it, it was only Hildebrand, aged six. And even Hildebr=
and
must have had his suspicions.
Mrs. Elphinstone =
was
among the first to become aware of it. For two days, frostily silent and
gimlet-like as to the eye, she observed Peter's hurricane wooing from afar;
then she acted. Peter she sent to London, pacifying him with an invitation =
to
return to the house in the following week. This done, she proceeded to
eliminate Eve. In the course of the parting interview she expressed herself
perhaps a little less guardedly than was either just or considerate; and Ev=
e,
flushed and at war with the whole race of Rayners, departed that afternoon =
to seek
a situation elsewhere. She had found it at the house of Mrs. Rastall-Retfor=
d.
And now this even=
ing,
as she sat in the drawing-room playing the piano to her employer, in had wa=
lked
the latter's son, a tall, nervous young man, perpetually clearing his throat
and fiddling with a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, with the announcement that=
he
had brought his friend, Mr. Rayner, to spend a few days in the old home.
Eve could still s=
ee
the look on Peter's face as, having shaken hands with his hostess, he turne=
d to
her. It was the look of the cowboy who, his weary ride over, sees through t=
he
dusk the friendly gleam of the saloon windows, and with a happy sigh reaches
for his revolver. There could be no two meanings to that look. It said, as
clearly as if he had shouted it, that this was no accidental meeting; that =
he
had tracked her down and proposed to resume matters at the point where they=
had
left off.
Eve was indignant=
. It
was abominable that he should pursue her in this way. She sat thinking how =
abominable
it was for five minutes; and then it suddenly struck her that she was hungr=
ier
than ever. She had forgotten her material troubles for the moment. It seeme=
d to
her now that she was quite faint with hunger.
A cuckoo clock
outside the door struck one. And, as it did so, it came to Eve that on the
sideboard in the dining-room there were biscuits.
A moment later she
was creeping softly down the stairs.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
It was dark and
ghostly on the stairs. The house was full of noises. She was glad when she
reached the dining-room. It would be pleasant to switch on the light. She
pushed open the door, and uttered a cry. The light was already switched on,=
and
at the table, his back to her, was a man.
There was no time=
for
flight. He must have heard the door open. In another moment he would turn a=
nd
spring.
She spoke
tremulously.
"Don't--don't
move. I'm pointing a pistol at you."
The man did not m=
ove.
"Foolish
child!" he said, indulgently. "Suppose it went off!"
She uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
"You! What a=
re
you doing here, Mr. Rayner?"
She moved into the
room, and her relief changed swiftly into indignation. On the table were ha=
lf a
chicken, a loaf, some cold potatoes, and a bottle of beer.
"I'm eating,
thank goodness!" said Peter, helping himself to a cold potato. "I=
had
begun to think I never should again."
"Eating!&quo=
t;
"Eating. I k=
now
a man of sensibility and refinement ought to shrink from raiding his hostes=
s's
larder in the small hours, but hunger's death to the finer feelings. It's t=
he
solar plexus punch which puts one's better self down and out for the count =
of
ten. I am a large and healthy young man, and, believe me, I need this little
snack. I need it badly. May I cut you a slice of chicken?"
She could hardly =
bear
to look at it, but pride gave her strength.
"No," s=
he
snapped.
"You're sure?
Poor little thing; I know you're half starved."
Eve stamped.
"How dare you
speak to me like that, Mr. Rayner?"
He drank bottled =
beer
thoughtfully.
"What made y=
ou
come down? I suppose you heard a noise and thought it was burglars?" he
said.
"Yes," =
said
Eve, thankfully accepting the idea. At all costs she must conceal the biscu=
it
motive.
"That was ve=
ry
plucky of you. Won't you sit down?"
"No, I'm goi=
ng
back to bed."
"Not just ye=
t.
I've several things to talk to you about. Sit down. That's right. Now cover=
up
your poor little pink ankles, or you'll be catching----"
She started up.
"Mr.
Rayner!"
"Sit down.&q=
uot;
She looked at him
defiantly, then, wondering at herself for doing it, sat down.
"Now," =
said
Peter, "what do you mean by it? What do you mean by dashing off from my
sister's house without leaving a word for me as to where you were going? You
knew I loved you."
"Good night,=
Mr.
Rayner."
"Sit down.
You've given me a great deal of trouble. Do you know it cost me a sovereign=
in
tips to find out your address? I couldn't get it out of my sister, and I ha=
d to
apply to the butler. I've a good mind to knock it off your first week's
pin-money."
"I shall not
stay here listening----"
"You knew
perfectly well I wanted to marry you. But you fly off without a word and bu=
ry
yourself in this benighted place with a gorgon who nags and bullies
you----"
"A nice way =
to
speak of your hostess," said Eve, scornfully.
"A very soot=
hing
way. I don't think I ever took such a dislike to a woman at first sight bef=
ore.
And when she started to bullyrag you, it was all I could do--But it won't l=
ast
long now. You must come away at once. We'll be married after Christmas, and=
in
the meantime you can go and live with my sister----"
Eve listened
speechlessly. She had so much to say that the difficulty of selection rende=
red
her dumb.
"When can you
start? I mean, do you have to give a month's notice or anything?"
Eve got up with a
short laugh.
"Good night,=
Mr.
Rayner," she said. "You have been very amusing, but I am getting
tired."
"I'm glad it=
's
all settled," said Peter. "Good night."
Eve stopped. She
could not go tamely away without saying a single one of the things that cro=
wded
in her mind.
"Do you
imagine," she said, "that I intend to marry you? Do you suppose, =
for
one moment----"
"Rather!&quo=
t;
said Peter. "You shall have a splendid time from now on, to make up for
all you've gone through. I'm going to be awfully good to you, Eve. You sha'=
n't
ever have any more worries, poor old thing." He looked at her
affectionately. "I wonder why it is that large men always fall in love
with little women. There are you, a fragile, fairy-like, ethereal wisp of a
little creature; and here am I----"
"A great, bi=
g,
greedy pig!" burst out Eve, "who thinks about nothing but eating =
and
drinking."
"I wasn't go=
ing
to have put it quite like that," said Peter, thoughtfully.
"I hate a gr=
eedy
man," said Eve, between her teeth.
"I have a
healthy appetite," protested Peter. "Nothing more. It runs in the
family. At the time of the Civil War the Rayner of the period, who was King
Charles's right-hand man, would frequently eat despatches to prevent them
falling into the hands of the enemy. He was noted for it."
Eve reached the d=
oor
and turned.
"I despise
you," she said.
"Good
night," said Peter, tenderly. "To-morrow morning we'll go for a w=
alk."
His prediction pr=
oved
absolutely correct. He was smoking a cigarette after breakfast when Eve cam=
e to
him. Her face was pink and mutinous, but there was a gleam in her eye.
"Are you rea=
dy
to come out, Mr. Rayner?" she said. "Mrs. Rastall-Retford says I'=
m to
take you to see the view from the golf links."
"You'll like
that," said Peter.
"I shall not
like it," snapped Eve. "But Mrs. Rastall-Retford is paying me a
salary to do what she tells me, and I have to earn it."
Conversation duri=
ng
the walk consisted mainly of a monologue on the part of Peter. It was a cri=
sp
and exhilarating morning, and he appeared to be feeling a universal benevol=
ence
towards all created things. He even softened slightly on the subject of Mrs.
Rastall-Retford, and advanced the theory that her peculiar manner might be =
due
to her having been ill-treated as a child.
Eve listened in
silence. It was not till they were nearing home on their return journey that
she spoke.
"Mr.
Rayner," she said.
"Yes?" =
said
Peter.
"I was talki=
ng
to Mrs. Rastall-Retford after breakfast," said Eve, "and I told h=
er
something about you."
"My conscien=
ce
is clear."
"Oh, nothing=
bad.
Some people would say it was very much to your credit." She looked away
across the fields. "I told her you were a vegetarian," she added,
carelessly.
There was a long
silence. Then Peter spoke three words, straight from the heart.
"You little
devil!"
Eve turned and lo=
oked
at him, her eyes sparkling wickedly.
"You see!&qu=
ot;
she said. "Now perhaps you will go."
"Without
you?" said Peter, stoutly. "Never!"
"In London y=
ou
will be able to eat all day--anything you like. You will be able to creep a=
bout
your club gnawing cold chicken all night. But if you stay here----"
"You have go=
t a
wrong idea of the London clubman's life," said Peter. "If I crept
about my club gnawing cold chicken I should have the committee after me. No=
, I
shall stay here and look after you. After all, what is food?"
"I'll tell y=
ou
what yours will be, if you like. Or would you rather wait and let it be a
surprise? Well, for lunch you will have some boiled potatoes and cabbage an=
d a
sweet--a sort of light soufflé thing. And for dinner----"
"Yes, but one
moment," said Peter. "If I'm a vegetarian, how did you account fo=
r my
taking all the chicken I could get at dinner last night, and looking as if I
wanted more?"
"Oh, that was
your considerateness. You didn't want to give trouble, even if you had to
sacrifice your principles. But it's all right now. You are going to have yo=
ur
vegetables."
Peter drew a deep
breath--the breath of the man who braces himself up and thanks whatever gods
there be for his unconquerable soul.
"I don't
care," he said. "'A book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of
wine, and thou----'"
"Oh, and I
forgot," interrupted Eve. "I told her you were a teetotaller as
well."
There was another
silence, longer than the first.
"The best
train," said Eve, at last, "is the ten-fifty."
He looked at her
inquiringly.
"The best
train?"
"For
London."
"What makes =
you
think that I am interested in trains to London?"
Eve bit her lip.<= o:p>
"Mr.
Rayner," she said, after a pause, "do you remember at lunch one d=
ay
at Mrs. Elphinstone's refusing parsnips? You said that, so far as you were
concerned, parsnips were first by a mile, and that prussic acid and strychn=
ine
also ran."
"Well?"
said Peter.
"Oh,
nothing," said Eve. "Only I made a stupid mistake. I told the coo=
k you
were devoted to parsnips. I'm sorry."
Peter looked at h=
er
gravely. "I'm putting up with a lot for your sake," he said.
"You needn't.
Why don't you go away?"
"And leave y=
ou
chained to the rock, Andromeda? Not for Perseus! I've only been here one ni=
ght,
but I've seen enough to know that I've got to take you away from this place.
Honestly, it's killing you. I was watching you last night. You're scared if
that infernal old woman starts to open her mouth. She's crushing the life o=
ut
of you. I'm going to stay on here till you say you'll marry me, or till they
throw me out."
"There are
parsnips for dinner to-night," said Eve, softly.
"I shall get=
to
like them. They are an acquired taste, I expect. Perhaps I am, too. Perhaps=
I
am the human parsnip, and you will have to learn to love me."
"You are the
human burr," said Eve, shortly. "I shouldn't have thought it poss=
ible
for a man to behave as you are doing."
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
In spite of herse=
lf,
there were moments during the next few days when Eve felt twinges of remors=
e.
It was only by telling herself that he had no right to have followed her to
this house, and that he was at perfect liberty to leave whenever he wished,
that she could harden her heart again. And even this reflection was not ent=
irely
satisfactory, for it made her feel how fond he must be of her to endure the=
se
evils for her sake.
And there was no
doubt about there being evils. It was a dreary house in which to spend wint=
er
days. There were no books that one could possibly read. The nearest railway
station was five miles away. There was not even a dog to talk to. Generally=
it
rained. Though Eve saw little of Peter, except at meals and in the drawing-=
room
after dinner--for Mrs. Rastall-Retford spent most of the day in her own sit=
ting-room
and required Eve to be at her side--she could picture his sufferings, and, =
try
as she would, she could not keep herself from softening a little. Her pride=
was
weakening. Constant attendance on her employer was beginning to have a bad
effect on her nerves. Association in a subordinate capacity with Mrs.
Rastall-Retford did not encourage a proud and spirited outlook on life.
Her imagination h=
ad
not exaggerated Peter's sufferings. Many people consider that Dante has spo=
ken
the last word on the post-mortem housing of the criminal classes. Peter, af=
ter
the first week of his visit, could have given him a few new ideas.
* *
It is unpleasant =
to
be half starved. It is unpleasant to be cooped up in a country-house in win=
ter with
nothing to do. It is unpleasant to have to sit at meals and listen to the o=
nly
girl you have ever really loved being bullyragged by an old lady with six
chins. And all these unpleasantnesses were occurring to Peter simultaneousl=
y.
It is highly creditable to him that the last should completely have outweig=
hed
the others.
He was generally
alone. Mr. Rastall-Retford, who would have been better than nothing as a
companion, was a man who enjoyed solitude. He was a confirmed vanisher. He
would be present at one moment, the next he would have glided silently away.
And, even on the rare occasions when he decided not to vanish, he seldom did
much more than clear his throat nervously and juggle with his pince-nez.
Peter, in his
boyhood, had been thrilled once by a narrative of a man who got stuck in the
Sargasso Sea. It seemed to him now that the monotony of the Sargasso Sea had
been greatly exaggerated.
Nemesis was certa=
inly
giving Peter his due. He had wormed his way into the Rastall-Retford
home-circle by grossly deceitful means. The moment he heard that Eve had go=
ne
to live with Mrs. Rastall-Retford, and had ascertained that the Rastall-Ret=
ford
with whom he had been at Cambridge and whom he still met occasionally at his
club when he did not see him first, was this lady's son, he had set himself=
to
court young Mr. Rastall-Retford. He had cornered him at the club and begun =
to
talk about the dear old 'Varsity days, ignoring the embarrassment of the la=
tter,
whose only clear recollection of the dear old 'Varsity days as linking Peter
and himself was of a certain bump-supper night, when sundry of the festive,=
led
and inspired by Peter, had completely wrecked his rooms and shaved off half=
a
growing moustache. He conveyed to young Mr. Rastall-Retford the impression =
that,
in the dear old 'Varsity days, they had shared each other's joys and sorrow=
s,
and, generally, had made Damon and Pythias look like a pair of cross-talk k=
nockabouts
at one of the rowdier music-halls. Not to invite so old a friend to stay at=
his
home, if he ever happened to be down that way, would, he hinted, be grossly
churlish. Mr. Rastall-Retford, impressed, issued the invitation. And now Pe=
ter
was being punished for his deceit. Nemesis may not be an Alfred Shrubb, but
give her time and she gets there.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
It was towards the
middle of the second week of his visit that Eve, coming into the drawing-ro=
om
before dinner, found Peter standing in front of the fire. They had not been
alone together for several days.
"Well?"
said he.
Eve went to the f=
ire
and warmed her hands.
"Well?"=
she
said, dispiritedly.
She was feeling
nervous and ill. Mrs. Rastall-Retford had been in one of her more truculent
moods all day, and for the first time Eve had the sensation of being thorou=
ghly
beaten. She dreaded the long hours to bedtime. The thought that there might=
be
bridge after dinner made her feel physically ill. She felt she could not
struggle through a bridge night.
On the occasions =
when
she was in one of her dangerous moods, Mrs. Rastall-Retford sometimes chose
rest as a cure, sometimes relaxation. Rest meant that she retired to her ro=
om
immediately after dinner, and expended her venom on her maid; relaxation me=
ant
bridge, and bridge seemed to bring out all her worst points. They played the
game for counters at her house, and there had been occasions in Eve's
experience when the loss of a hundred or so of these useful little adjuncts=
to
Fun in the Home had lashed her almost into a frenzy. She was one of those b=
ridge
players who keep up a running quarrel with Fate during the game, and when s=
he
was not abusing Fate she was generally reproaching her partner. Eve was alw=
ays
her partner; and to-night she devoutly hoped that her employer would elect =
to
rest. She always played badly with Mrs. Rastall-Retford, through sheer
nervousness. Once she had revoked, and there had been a terrible moment and
much subsequent recrimination.
Peter looked at h=
er
curiously.
"You're pale
to-night," he said.
"I have a
headache."
"H'm! How is=
our
hostess? Fair? Or stormy?"
"As I was passing her door I heard her bullying her maid, so I suppose stormy."<= o:p>
"That means a
bad time for you?" he said, sympathetically.
"I suppose s=
o.
If we play bridge. But she may go to bed directly after dinner."
She tried to keep=
her
voice level, but he detected the break.
"Eve," =
he
said, quickly, "won't you let me take you away from here? You've no
business in this sort of game. You're not tough enough. You've got to be lo=
ved
and made a fuss of and----"
She laughed shaki=
ly.
"Perhaps you=
can
give me the address of some lady who wants a companion to love and make a f=
uss
of?"
"I can give =
you
the address of a man."
She rested an arm=
on
the mantelpiece and stood looking into the blaze, without replying.
Before he could s=
peak
again there was a step outside the door, and Mrs. Rastall-Retford rustled i=
nto
the room.
Eve had not misre=
ad
the storm-signals. Her employer's mood was still as it had been earlier in =
the
day. Dinner passed in almost complete silence. Mrs. Rastall-Retford sat
brooding dumbly. Her eye was cold and menacing, and Peter, working his way
through his vegetables, shuddered for Eve. He had understood her allusion to
bridge, having been privileged several times during his stay to see his hos=
tess
play that game, and he hoped that there would be no bridge to-night.
And this was
unselfish of him, for bridge meant sandwiches. Punctually at nine o'clock on
bridge nights the butler would deposit on a side-table a plate of chicken
sandwiches and (in deference to Peter's vegetarian views) a smaller plate of
cheese sandwiches. At the close of play Mrs. Rastall-Retford would take one
sandwich from each plate, drink a thimbleful of weak whisky and water, and
retire.
Peter could alway=
s do
with a sandwich or two these days. But he was prepared to abandon them joyf=
ully
if his hostess would waive bridge for this particular evening.
It was not to be.=
In
the drawing-room Mrs. Rastall-Retford came out of her trance and called
imperiously for the cards. Peter, when he saw his hand after the first deal,
had a presentiment that if all his hands were to be as good as this, the
evening was going to be a trying one. On the other occasions when they had
played he had found it an extremely difficult task, even with moderate card=
s,
to bring it about that his hostess should always win the odd rubber, for he=
was
an excellent player, and, like most good players, had an artistic conscience
which made it painful to him to play a deliberately bad game, even from the
best motives. If all his hands were going to be as strong as this first one=
he
saw that there was disaster ahead. He could not help winning.
Mrs. Rastall-Retf=
ord,
who had dealt the first hand, made a most improper diamond declaration. Her=
son
unfilially doubled, and, Eve having chicane--a tragedy which her partner
evidently seemed to consider could have been avoided by the exercise of
ordinary common sense--Peter and his partner, despite Peter's best efforts,=
won
the game handsomely.
The son of the ho=
use
dealt the next hand. Eve sorted her cards listlessly. She was feeling curio=
usly
tired. Her brain seemed dulled.
This hand, as the
first had done, went all in favour of the two men. Mr. Rastall-Retford won =
five
tricks in succession, and, judging from the glitter in his mild eye, was ev=
idently
going to win as many more as he possibly could. Mrs. Rastall-Retford glower=
ed
silently. There was electricity in the air.
The son of the ho=
use
led a club. Eve played a card mechanically.
"Have you no
clubs, Miss Hendrie?"
Eve started, and
looked at her hand.
"No," s=
he
said.
Mrs. Rastall-Retf=
ord
grunted suspiciously.
Not long ago, in
Westport, Connecticut, U.S.A., a young man named Harold Sperry, a telephone
worker, was boring a hole in the wall of a house with a view to passing a w=
ire
through it. He whistled joyously as he worked. He did not know that he had
selected for purposes of perforation the exact spot where there lay, nestli=
ng
in the brickwork, a large leaden water-pipe. The first intimation he had of
that fact was when a jet of water suddenly knocked him fifteen feet into a
rosebush.
As Harold felt th=
en,
so did Eve now, when, examining her hand once more to make certain that she=
had
no clubs, she discovered the ace of that ilk peeping coyly out from behind =
the
seven of spades.
Her face turned q=
uite
white. It is never pleasant to revoke at bridge, but to Eve just then it se=
emed
a disaster beyond words. She looked across at her partner. Her imagination
pictured the scene there would be ere long, unless----
It happens every =
now
and then that the human brain shows in a crisis an unwonted flash of speed.
Eve's did at this juncture. To her in her trouble there came a sudden idea.=
She looked round =
the
table. Mr. Rastall-Retford, having taken the last trick, had gathered it up=
in
the introspective manner of one planning big coups, and was brooding tensel=
y,
with knit brows. His mother was frowning over her cards. She was unobserved=
.
She seized the
opportunity. She rose from her seat, moved quickly to the side-table, and,
turning her back, slipped the fatal card dexterously into the interior of a
cheese sandwich.
Mrs. Rastall-Retf=
ord,
absorbed, did not notice for an instant. Then she gave tongue.
"What are you
doing, Miss Hendrie?"
Eve was breathing
quickly.
"I--I thought
that Mr. Rayner might like a sandwich."
She was at his el=
bow
with the plate. It trembled in her hand.
"A sandwich!
Kindly do not be so officious, Miss Hendrie. The idea--in the middle of a
hand----" Her voice died away in a resentful mumble.
Peter started. He=
had
been allowing his thoughts to wander. He looked from the sandwich to Eve and
then at the sandwich again. He was puzzled. This had the aspect of being an
olive-branch--could it be? Could she be meaning----? Or was it a subtle ins=
ult?
Who could say? At any rate it was a sandwich, and he seized it, without
prejudice.
"I hope at l=
east
you have had the sense to remember that Mr. Rayner is a vegetarian, Miss
Hendrie," said Mrs. Rastall-Retford. "That is not a chicken
sandwich?"
"No," s=
aid
Eve; "it is not a chicken sandwich."
Peter beamed
gratefully. He raised the olive-branch, and bit into it with the energy of a
starving man. And as he did so he caught Eve's eye.
"Miss
Hendrie!" cried Mrs. Rastall-Retford.
Eve started
violently.
"Miss Hendri=
e,
will you be good enough to play? The king of clubs to beat. I can't think
what's the matter with you to-night."
"I'm very
sorry," said Eve, and put down the nine of spades.
Mrs. Rastall-Retf=
ord
glared.
"This is
absurd," she cried. "You must have the ace of clubs. If you have =
not
got it, who has? Look through your hand again. Is it there?"
"No."
"Then where =
can
it be?"
"Where can it
be?" echoed Peter, taking another bite.
"Why--why,&q=
uot;
said Eve, crimson, "I--I--have only five cards. I ought to have six.&q=
uot;
"Five?"
said Mrs. Rastall-Retford "Nonsense! Count again. Have you dropped it =
on
the floor?"
Mr. Rastall-Retfo=
rd
stooped and looked under the table.
"It is not on
the floor," he said. "I suppose it must have been missing from the
pack before I dealt."
Mrs. Rastall-Retf=
ord threw
down her cards and rose ponderously. It offended her vaguely that there see=
med
to be nobody to blame. "I shall go to bed," she said.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
Peter stood before
the fire and surveyed Eve as she sat on the sofa. They were alone in the ro=
om,
Mr. Rastall-Retford having drifted silently away in the wake of his mother.
Suddenly Eve began to laugh helplessly.
He shook his head=
at
her.
"This is
considerably sharper than a serpent's tooth," he said. "You shoul=
d be
fawning gratefully upon me, not laughing. Do you suppose King Charles laugh=
ed
at my ancestor when he ate the despatches? However, for the first time sinc=
e I
have been in this house I feel as if I had had a square meal."
Eve became sudden=
ly
serious. The smile left her face.
"Mr. Rayner,
please don't think I'm ungrateful. I couldn't help laughing, but I can't te=
ll
you how grateful I am. You don't know what it would have been like if she h=
ad
found out that I had revoked. I did it once before, and she kept on about it
for days and days. It was awful." She shivered. "I think you must=
be
right, and my nerves are going."
He nodded.
"So are
you--to-morrow, by the first train. I wonder how soon we can get married. Do
you know anything about special licenses?"
She looked at him
curiously.
"You're very
obstinate," she said.
"Firm,"=
he
corrected. "Firm. Could you pack to-night, do you think, and be ready =
for
that ten-fifty to-morrow morning?"
She began to trac=
e an
intricate pattern on the floor with the point of her shoe.
"I can't ima=
gine
why you are fond of me!" she said. "I've been very horrid to
you."
"Nonsense.
You've been all that's sweet and womanly."
"And I want =
to
tell you why," she went on. "Your--your sister----"
"Ah, I thoug=
ht
as much!"
"She--she saw
that you seemed to be getting fond of me, and she----"
"She
would!"
"Said some
rather horrid things that--hurt," said Eve, in a low voice.
Peter crossed ove=
r to
where she sat and took her hand.
"Don't you w=
orry
about her," he said. "She's not a bad sort really, but about once
every six months she needs a brotherly talking-to, or she gets above hersel=
f.
One is about due during the next few days."
He stroke her han=
d.
"Fasting,&qu=
ot;
he said, thoughtfully, "clears and stimulates the brain. I fancy I sha=
ll
be able to think out some rather special things to say to her this time.&qu=
ot;
You know, the longer I live, the mo=
re
clearly I see that half the trouble in this bally world is caused by the
light-hearted and thoughtless way in which chappies dash off letters of
introduction and hand them to other chappies to deliver to chappies of the
third part. It's one of those things that make you wish you were living in =
the Stone
Age. What I mean to say is, if a fellow in those days wanted to give anyone=
a
letter of introduction, he had to spend a month or so carving it on a
large-sized boulder, and the chances were that the other chappie got so sic=
k of
lugging the thing round in the hot sun that he dropped it after the first m=
ile.
But nowadays it's so easy to write letters of introduction that everybody d=
oes
it without a second thought, with the result that some perfectly harmless c=
ove
like myself gets in the soup.
Mark you, all the
above is what you might call the result of my riper experience. I don't mind
admitting that in the first flush of the thing, so to speak, when Jeeves to=
ld
me--this would be about three weeks after I'd landed in America--that a
blighter called Cyril Bassington-Bassington had arrived and I found that he=
had
brought a letter of introduction to me from Aunt Agatha ... where was I? Oh=
, yes
... I don't mind admitting, I was saying, that just at first I was rather
bucked. You see, after the painful events which had resulted in my leaving
England I hadn't expected to get any sort of letter from Aunt Agatha which
would pass the censor, so to speak. And it was a pleasant surprise to open =
this
one and find it almost civil. Chilly, perhaps, in parts, but on the whole q=
uite
tolerably polite. I looked on the thing as a hopeful sign. Sort of
olive-branch, you know. Or do I mean orange blossom? What I'm getting at is
that the fact that Aunt Agatha was writing to me without calling me names
seemed, more or less, like a step in the direction of peace.
And I was all for
peace, and that right speedily. I'm not saying a word against New York, mind
you. I liked the place, and was having quite a ripe time there. But the fact
remains that a fellow who's been used to London all his life does get a tri=
fle
homesick on a foreign strand, and I wanted to pop back to the cosy old flat=
in
Berkeley Street--which could only be done when Aunt Agatha had simmered down
and got over the Glossop episode. I know that London is a biggish city, but,
believe me, it isn't half big enough for any fellow to live in with Aunt Ag=
atha
when she's after him with the old hatchet. And so I'm bound to say I looked=
on
this chump Bassington-Bassington, when he arrived, more or less as a Dove of
Peace, and was all for him.
He would seem from contemporary accounts to have blown in one morning at seven-forty-five, that being the ghastly sort of hour they shoot you off the liner in New York. He= was given the respectful raspberry by Jeeves, and told to try again about three hours later, when there would be a sporting chance of my having sprung from= my bed with a glad cry to welcome another day and all that sort of thing. Which was rather decent of Jeeves, by the way, for it so happened that there was a slight estrangement, a touch of coldness, a bit of a row in other words, be= tween us at the moment because of some rather priceless purple socks which I was wearing against his wishes: and a lesser man might easily have snatched at = the chance of getting back at me a bit by loosing Cyril into my bedchamber at a moment when I couldn't have stood a two-minutes' conversation with my deare= st pal. For until I have had my early cup of tea and have brooded on life for a bit absolutely undisturbed, I'm not much of a lad for the merry chit-chat.<= o:p>
So Jeeves very
sportingly shot Cyril out into the crisp morning air, and didn't let me kno=
w of
his existence till he brought his card in with the Bohea.
"And what mi=
ght
all this be, Jeeves?" I said, giving the thing the glassy gaze.
"The gentlem=
an
has arrived from England, I understand, sir. He called to see you earlier in
the day."
"Good Lord,
Jeeves! You don't mean to say the day starts earlier than this?"
"He desired =
me
to say he would return later, sir."
"I've never
heard of him. Have you ever heard of him, Jeeves?"
"I am famili=
ar
with the name Bassington-Bassington, sir. There are three branches of the
Bassington-Bassington family--the Shropshire Bassington-Bassingtons, the
Hampshire Bassington-Bassingtons, and the Kent Bassington-Bassingtons."=
;
"England see=
ms
pretty well stocked up with Bassington-Bassingtons."
"Tolerably s=
o,
sir."
"No chance o=
f a
sudden shortage, I mean, what?"
"Presumably =
not,
sir."
"And what so=
rt
of a specimen is this one?"
"I could not
say, sir, on such short acquaintance."
"Will you gi=
ve
me a sporting two to one, Jeeves, judging from what you have seen of him, t=
hat
this chappie is not a blighter or an excrescence?"
"No, sir. I
should not care to venture such liberal odds."
"I knew it.
Well, the only thing that remains to be discovered is what kind of a blight=
er
he is."
"Time will t=
ell,
sir. The gentleman brought a letter for you, sir."
"Oh, he did,=
did
he?" I said, and grasped the communication. And then I recognised the
handwriting. "I say, Jeeves, this is from my Aunt Agatha!"
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Don't dismi=
ss
it in that light way. Don't you see what this means? She says she wants me =
to
look after this excrescence while he's in New York. By Jove, Jeeves, if I o=
nly
fawn on him a bit, so that he sends back a favourable report to head-quarte=
rs,
I may yet be able to get back to England in time for Goodwood. Now is certa=
inly
the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party, Jeeves. We must
rally round and cosset this cove in no uncertain manner."
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"He isn't go=
ing
to stay in New York long," I said, taking another look at the letter.
"He's headed for Washington. Going to give the nibs there the once-ove=
r,
apparently, before taking a whirl at the Diplomatic Service. I should say t=
hat
we can win this lad's esteem and affection with a lunch and a couple of
dinners, what?"
"I fancy that
should be entirely adequate, sir."
"This is the
jolliest thing that's happened since we left England. It looks to me as if =
the
sun were breaking through the clouds."
"Very possib=
ly,
sir."
He started to put=
out
my things, and there was an awkward sort of silence.
"Not those
socks, Jeeves," I said, gulping a bit but having a dash at the careles=
s,
off-hand tone. "Give me the purple ones."
"I beg your
pardon, sir?"
"Those jolly
purple ones."
"Very good,
sir."
He lugged them ou=
t of
the drawer as if he were a vegetarian fishing a caterpillar out of the sala=
d.
You could see he was feeling deeply. Deuced painful and all that, this sort=
of
thing, but a chappie has got to assert himself every now and then. Absolute=
ly.
*
I was looking for
Cyril to show up again any time after breakfast, but he didn't appear: so
towards one o'clock I trickled out to the Lambs Club, where I had an
appointment to feed the Wooster face with a cove of the name of Caffyn I'd =
got
pally with since my arrival--George Caffyn, a fellow who wrote plays and wh=
at
not. I'd made a lot of friends during my stay in New York, the city being
crammed with bonhomous lads who one and all extended a welcoming hand to th=
e stranger
in their midst.
Caffyn was a bit late, but bobbed up finally, saying that he had been kept at a rehearsal of= his new musical comedy, "Ask Dad"; and we started in. We had just rea= ched the coffee, when the waiter came up and said that Jeeves wanted to see me.<= o:p>
Jeeves was in the
waiting-room. He gave the socks one pained look as I came in, then averted =
his
eyes.
"Mr.
Bassington-Bassington has just telephoned, sir."
"Oh?"
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"Where is
he?"
"In prison,
sir."
I reeled against =
the
wallpaper. A nice thing to happen to Aunt Agatha's nominee on his first mor=
ning
under my wing, I did not think!
"In
prison!"
"Yes, sir. He
said on the telephone that he had been arrested and would be glad if you co=
uld
step round and bail him out."
"Arrested! W=
hat
for?"
"He did not
favour me with his confidence in that respect, sir."
"This is a b=
it
thick, Jeeves."
"Precisely,
sir."
I collected old George, who very decently volunteered to stagger along with me, and we hopp= ed into a taxi. We sat around at the police-station for a bit on a wooden benc= h in a sort of ante-room, and presently a policeman appeared, leading in Cyril.<= o:p>
"Halloa! Hal=
loa!
Halloa!" I said. "What?"
My experience is =
that
a fellow never really looks his best just after he's come out of a cell. Wh=
en I
was up at Oxford, I used to have a regular job bailing out a pal of mine who
never failed to get pinched every Boat-Race night, and he always looked like
something that had been dug up by the roots. Cyril was in pretty much the s=
ame
sort of shape. He had a black eye and a torn collar, and altogether was not=
hing
to write home about--especially if one was writing to Aunt Agatha. He was a
thin, tall chappie with a lot of light hair and pale-blue goggly eyes which
made him look like one of the rarer kinds of fish.
"I got your
message," I said.
"Oh, are you
Bertie Wooster?"
"Absolutely.=
And
this is my pal George Caffyn. Writes plays and what not, don't you know.&qu=
ot;
We all shook hand=
s,
and the policeman, having retrieved a piece of chewing-gum from the undersi=
de
of a chair, where he had parked it against a rainy day, went off into a cor=
ner
and began to contemplate the infinite.
"This is a
rotten country," said Cyril.
"Oh, I don't
know, you know, don't you know!" I said.
"We do our
best," said George.
"Old George =
is
an American," I explained. "Writes plays, don't you know, and what
not."
"Of course, I
didn't invent the country," said George. "That was Columbus. But I
shall be delighted to consider any improvements you may suggest and lay them
before the proper authorities."
"Well, why d=
on't
the policemen in New York dress properly?"
George took a loo=
k at
the chewing officer across the room.
"I don't see
anything missing," he said
"I mean to s=
ay,
why don't they wear helmets like they do in London? Why do they look like
postmen? It isn't fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed confusing. I was simply
standing on the pavement, looking at things, when a fellow who looked like a
postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn't see why I should have
postmen prodding me. Why the dickens should a fellow come three thousand mi=
les
to be prodded by postmen?"
"The point is
well taken," said George. "What did you do?"
"I gave him a
shove, you know. I've got a frightfully hasty temper, you know. All the
Bassington-Bassingtons have got frightfully hasty tempers, don't you know! =
And
then he biffed me in the eye and lugged me off to this beastly place."=
"I'll fix it,
old son," I said. And I hauled out the bank-roll and went off to open
negotiations, leaving Cyril to talk to George. I don't mind admitting that I
was a bit perturbed. There were furrows in the old brow, and I had a kind of
foreboding feeling. As long as this chump stayed in New York, I was respons=
ible
for him: and he didn't give me the impression of being the species of cove a
reasonable chappie would care to be responsible for for more than about thr=
ee
minutes.
I mused with a
considerable amount of tensity over Cyril that night, when I had got home a=
nd
Jeeves had brought me the final whisky. I couldn't help feeling that this v=
isit
of his to America was going to be one of those times that try men's souls a=
nd
what not. I hauled out Aunt Agatha's letter of introduction and re-read it,=
and
there was no getting away from the fact that she undoubtedly appeared to be
somewhat wrapped up in this blighter and to consider it my mission in life =
to shield
him from harm while on the premises. I was deuced thankful that he had taken
such a liking for George Caffyn, old George being a steady sort of cove. Af=
ter
I had got him out of his dungeon-cell, he and old George had gone off toget=
her,
as chummy as brothers, to watch the afternoon rehearsal of "Ask Dad.&q=
uot;
There was some talk, I gathered, of their dining together. I felt pretty ea=
sy
in my mind while George had his eye on him.
I had got about as
far as this in my meditations, when Jeeves came in with a telegram. At leas=
t,
it wasn't a telegram: it was a cable--from Aunt Agatha--and this is what it
said:----
Has Cyril Bassington-Bassing=
ton
called yet? On no account introduce him into theatrical cir=
cles.
Vitally important. Letter follows.
I read it a coupl=
e of
times.
"This is rum=
my,
Jeeves!"
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"Very rummy =
and
dashed disturbing!"
"Will there =
be
anything further to-night, sir?"
Of course, if he =
was
going to be as bally unsympathetic as that there was nothing to be done. My
idea had been to show him the cable and ask his advice. But if he was letti=
ng
those purple socks rankle to that extent, the good old noblesse oblige of t=
he
Woosters couldn't lower itself to the extent of pleading with the man.
Absolutely not. So I gave it a miss.
"Nothing mor=
e,
thanks."
"Good night,
sir."
"Good
night."
He floated away, =
and
I sat down to think the thing over. I had been directing the best efforts of
the old bean to the problem for a matter of half an hour, when there was a =
ring
at the bell. I went to the door, and there was Cyril, looking pretty festiv=
e.
"I'll come in
for a bit if I may," he said. "Got something rather priceless to =
tell
you."
He curveted past =
me
into the sitting-room, and when I got there after shutting the front door I
found him reading Aunt Agatha's cable and giggling in a rummy sort of manne=
r.
"Oughtn't to have looked at this, I suppose. Caught sight of my name a=
nd
read it without thinking. I say, Wooster, old friend of my youth, this is
rather funny. Do you mind if I have a drink? Thanks awfully and all that so=
rt
of rot. Yes, it's rather funny, considering what I came to tell you. Jolly =
old
Caffyn has given me a small part in that musical comedy of his, 'Ask Dad.' =
Only
a bit, you know, but quite tolerably ripe. I'm feeling frightfully braced, =
don't
you know!"
He drank his drin=
k,
and went on. He didn't seem to notice that I wasn't jumping about the room,
yapping with joy.
"You know, I=
've
always wanted to go on the stage, you know," he said. "But my jol=
ly
old guv'nor wouldn't stick it at any price. Put the old Waukeesi down with a
bang, and turned bright purple whenever the subject was mentioned. That's t=
he
real reason why I came over here, if you want to know. I knew there wasn't a
chance of my being able to work this stage wheeze in London without somebody
getting on to it and tipping off the guv'nor, so I rather brainily sprang t=
he
scheme of popping over to Washington to broaden my mind. There's nobody to =
interfere
on this side, you see, so I can go right ahead!"
I tried to reason
with the poor chump.
"But your
guv'nor will have to know some time."
"That'll be =
all
right. I shall be the jolly old star by then, and he won't have a leg to st=
and
on."
"It seems to=
me he'll
have one leg to stand on while he kicks me with the other."
"Why, where =
do
you come in? What have you got to do with it?"
"I introduced
you to George Caffyn."
"So you did,=
old
top, so you did. I'd quite forgotten. I ought to have thanked you before. W=
ell,
so long. There's an early rehearsal of 'Ask Dad' to-morrow morning, and I m=
ust
be toddling. Rummy the thing should be called 'Ask Dad,' when that's just w=
hat
I'm not going to do. See what I mean, what, what? Well, pip-pip!"
"Toodle-oo!&=
quot;
I said sadly, and the blighter scudded off. I dived for the phone and calle=
d up
George Caffyn.
"I say, Geor=
ge,
what's all this about Cyril Bassington-Bassington?"
"What about
him?"
"He tells me
you've given him a part in your show."
"Oh, yes. Ju=
st a
few lines."
"But I've ju=
st
had fifty-seven cables from home telling me on no account to let him go on =
the
stage."
"I'm sorry. =
But
Cyril is just the type I need for that part. He's simply got to be
himself."
"It's pretty
tough on me, George, old man. My Aunt Agatha sent this blighter over with a
letter of introduction to me, and she will hold me responsible."
"She'll cut =
you
out of her will?"
"It isn't a
question of money. But--of course, you've never met my Aunt Agatha, so it's
rather hard to explain. But she's a sort of human vampire-bat, and she'll m=
ake
things most fearfully unpleasant for me when I go back to England. She's the
kind of woman who comes and rags you before breakfast, don't you know."=
;
"Well, don't=
go
back to England, then. Stick here and become President."
"But, George,
old top----!"
"Good
night!"
"But, I say,
George, old man!"
"You didn't =
get
my last remark. It was 'Good night!' You Idle Rich may not need any sleep, =
but
I've got to be bright and fresh in the morning. God bless you!"
I felt as if I ha=
dn't
a friend in the world. I was so jolly well worked up that I went and banged=
on
Jeeves's door. It wasn't a thing I'd have cared to do as a rule, but it see=
med
to me that now was the time for all good men to come to the aid of the part=
y,
so to speak, and that it was up to Jeeves to rally round the young master, =
even
if it broke up his beauty-sleep.
Jeeves emerged in=
a
brown dressing-gown.
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"Deuced sorr=
y to
wake you up, Jeeves, and what not, but all sorts of dashed disturbing things
have been happening."
"I was not
asleep. It is my practice, on retiring, to read a few pages of some instruc=
tive
book."
"That's good!
What I mean to say is, if you've just finished exercising the old bean, it's
probably in mid-season form for tackling problems. Jeeves, Mr.
Bassington-Bassington is going on the stage!"
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Ah! The thi=
ng
doesn't hit you! You don't get it properly! Here's the point. All his family
are most fearfully dead against his going on the stage. There's going to be=
no
end of trouble if he isn't headed off. And, what's worse, my Aunt Agatha wi=
ll
blame me, you see."
"I see,
sir."
"Well, can't=
you
think of some way of stopping him?"
"Not, I conf=
ess,
at the moment, sir."
"Well, have a
stab at it."
"I will give=
the
matter my best consideration, sir. Will there be anything further
to-night?"
"I hope not!
I've had all I can stand already."
"Very good,
sir."
He popped off.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
The part which old
George had written for the chump Cyril took up about two pages of typescrip=
t;
but it might have been Hamlet, the way that poor, misguided pinhead worked
himself to the bone over it. I suppose, if I heard him his lines once, I di=
d it
a dozen times in the first couple of days. He seemed to think that my only
feeling about the whole affair was one of enthusiastic admiration, and that=
he
could rely on my support and sympathy. What with trying to imagine how Aunt
Agatha was going to take this thing, and being woken up out of the dreamles=
s in
the small hours every other night to give my opinion of some new bit of bus=
iness
which Cyril had invented, I became more or less the good old shadow. And all
the time Jeeves remained still pretty cold and distant about the purple soc=
ks.
It's this sort of thing that ages a chappie, don't you know, and makes his
youthful joie-de-vivre go a bit groggy at the knees.
In the middle of =
it
Aunt Agatha's letter arrived. It took her about six pages to do justice to
Cyril's father's feelings in regard to his going on the stage and about six
more to give me a kind of sketch of what she would say, think, and do if I
didn't keep him clear of injurious influences while he was in America. The
letter came by the afternoon mail, and left me with a pretty firm conviction
that it wasn't a thing I ought to keep to myself. I didn't even wait to ring
the bell: I whizzed for the kitchen, bleating for Jeeves, and butted into t=
he middle
of a regular tea-party of sorts. Seated at the table were a depressed-looki=
ng
cove who might have been a valet or something, and a boy in a Norfolk suit.=
The
valet-chappie was drinking a whisky and soda, and the boy was being tolerab=
ly
rough with some jam and cake.
"Oh, I say,
Jeeves!" I said. "Sorry to interrupt the feast of reason and flow=
of
soul and so forth, but----"
At this juncture =
the
small boy's eye hit me like a bullet and stopped me in my tracks. It was on=
e of
those cold, clammy, accusing sort of eyes--the kind that makes you reach up=
to
see if your tie is straight: and he looked at me as if I were some sort of
unnecessary product which Cuthbert the Cat had brought in after a ramble am=
ong
the local ash-cans. He was a stoutish infant with a lot of freckles and a g=
ood
deal of jam on his face.
"Hallo! Hall= o! Hallo!" I said. "What?" There didn't seem much else to say.<= o:p>
The stripling sta=
red
at me in a nasty sort of way through the jam. He may have loved me at first
sight, but the impression he gave me was that he didn't think a lot of me a=
nd
wasn't betting much that I would improve a great deal on acquaintance. I ha=
d a
kind of feeling that I was about as popular with him as a cold Welsh rabbit=
.
"What's your
name?" he asked.
"My name? Oh,
Wooster, don't you know, and what not."
"My pop's ri=
cher
than you are!"
That seemed to be=
all
about me. The child having said his say, started in on the jam again. I tur=
ned
to Jeeves.
"I say, Jeev=
es,
can you spare a moment? I want to show you something."
"Very good,
sir." We toddled into the sitting-room.
"Who is your
little friend, Sidney the Sunbeam, Jeeves?"
"The young
gentleman, sir?"
"It's a loose
way of describing him, but I know what you mean."
"I trust I w=
as
not taking a liberty in entertaining him, sir?"
"Not a bit. =
If
that's your idea of a large afternoon, go ahead."
"I happened =
to
meet the young gentleman taking a walk with his father's valet, sir, whom I
used to know somewhat intimately in London, and I ventured to invite them b=
oth
to join me here."
"Well, never
mind about him, Jeeves. Read this letter."
He gave it the
up-and-down.
"Very
disturbing, sir!" was all he could find to say.
"What are we
going to do about it?"
"Time may
provide a solution, sir."
"On the other
hand, it mayn't, what?"
"Extremely t=
rue,
sir.".
We'd got as far as
this, when there was a ring at the door. Jeeves shimmered off, and Cyril bl=
ew
in, full of good cheer and blitheringness.
"I say, Woos=
ter,
old thing," he said, "I want your advice. You know this jolly old
part of mine. How ought I to dress it? What I mean is, the first act scene =
is
laid in an hotel of sorts, at about three in the afternoon. What ought I to
wear, do you think?"
I wasn't feeling =
fit
for a discussion of gent's suitings.
"You'd better
consult Jeeves," I said.
"A hot and b=
y no
means unripe idea! Where is he?"
"Gone back to
the kitchen, I suppose."
"I'll smite =
the
good old bell, shall I? Yes? No?"
"Right-o!&qu=
ot;
Jeeves poured
silently in.
"Oh, I say,
Jeeves," began Cyril, "I just wanted to have a syllable or two wi=
th
you. It's this way--Hallo, who's this?"
I then perceived =
that
the stout stripling had trickled into the room after Jeeves. He was standing
near the door looking at Cyril as if his worst fears had been realised. The=
re
was a bit of a silence. The child remained there, drinking Cyril in for abo=
ut
half a minute; then he gave his verdict:
"Fish-face!&=
quot;
"Eh? What?&q=
uot;
said Cyril.
The child, who had
evidently been taught at his mother's knee to speak the truth, made his mea=
ning
a trifle clearer.
"You've a fa=
ce
like a fish!"
He spoke as if Cy=
ril
was more to be pitied than censured, which I am bound to say I thought rath=
er
decent and broad-minded of him. I don't mind admitting that, whenever I loo=
ked
at Cyril's face, I always had a feeling that he couldn't have got that way
without its being mostly his own fault. I found myself warming to this chil=
d. Absolutely,
don't you know. I liked his conversation.
It seemed to take
Cyril a moment or two really to grasp the thing, and then you could hear the
blood of the Bassington-Bassingtons begin to sizzle.
"Well, I'm
dashed!" he said. "I'm dashed if I'm not!"
"I wouldn't =
have
a face like that," proceeded the child, with a good deal of earnestnes=
s,
"not if you gave me a million dollars." He thought for a moment, =
then
corrected himself. "Two million dollars!" he added.
Just what occurred
then I couldn't exactly say, but the next few minutes were a bit exciting. I
take it that Cyril must have made a dive for the infant. Anyway, the air se=
emed
pretty well congested with arms and legs and things. Something bumped into =
the
Wooster waistcoat just around the third button, and I collapsed on to the
settee and rather lost interest in things for the moment. When I had
unscrambled myself, I found that Jeeves and the child had retired and Cyril=
was
standing in the middle of the room snorting a bit.
"Who's that
frightful little brute, Wooster?"
"I don't kno=
w. I
never saw him before to-day."
"I gave him a
couple of tolerably juicy buffets before he legged it. I say, Wooster, that=
kid
said a dashed odd thing. He yelled out something about Jeeves promising him=
a
dollar if he called me--er--what he said."
It sounded pretty
unlikely to me.
"What would
Jeeves do that for?"
"It struck m=
e as
rummy, too."
"Where would=
be
the sense of it?"
"That's what=
I
can't see."
"I mean to s=
ay,
it's nothing to Jeeves what sort of a face you have!"
"No!" s=
aid
Cyril. He spoke a little coldly, I fancied. I don't know why. "Well, I=
'll
be popping. Toodle-oo!"
"Pip-pip!&qu=
ot;
It must have been
about a week after this rummy little episode that George Caffyn called me up
and asked me if I would care to go and see a run-through of his show. "=
;Ask
Dad," it seemed, was to open out of town in Schenectady on the followi=
ng
Monday, and this was to be a sort of preliminary dress-rehearsal. A prelimi=
nary
dress-rehearsal, old George explained, was the same as a regular
dress-rehearsal inasmuch as it was apt to look like nothing on earth and la=
st
into the small hours, but more exciting because they wouldn't be timing the
piece and consequently all the blighters who on these occasions let their a=
ngry
passions rise would have plenty of scope for interruptions, with the result
that a pleasant time would be had by all.
The thing was bil=
led
to start at eight o'clock, so I rolled up at ten-fifteen, so as not to have=
too
long to wait before they began. The dress-parade was still going on. George=
was
on the stage, talking to a cove in shirt-sleeves and an absolutely round
chappie with big spectacles and a practically hairless dome. I had seen Geo=
rge
with the latter merchant once or twice at the club, and I knew that he was =
Blumenfield,
the manager. I waved to George, and slid into a seat at the back of the hou=
se,
so as to be out of the way when the fighting started. Presently George hopp=
ed
down off the stage and came and joined me, and fairly soon after that the
curtain went down. The chappie at the piano whacked out a well-meant bar or
two, and the curtain went up again.
I can't quite rec=
all
what the plot of "Ask Dad" was about, but I do know that it seemed
able to jog along all right without much help from Cyril. I was rather puzz=
led
at first. What I mean is, through brooding on Cyril and hearing him in his =
part
and listening to his views on what ought and what ought not to be done, I
suppose I had got a sort of impression rooted in the old bean that he was
pretty well the backbone of the show, and that the rest of the company didn=
't
do much except go on and fill in when he happened to be off the stage. I sat
there for nearly half an hour, waiting for him to make his entrance, until =
I suddenly
discovered he had been on from the start. He was, in fact, the rummy-looking
plug-ugly who was now leaning against a potted palm a couple of feet from t=
he
O.P. side, trying to appear intelligent while the heroine sang a song about
Love being like something which for the moment has slipped my memory. After=
the
second refrain he began to dance in company with a dozen other equally weird
birds. A painful spectacle for one who could see a vision of Aunt Agatha
reaching for the hatchet and old Bassington-Bassington senior putting on hi=
s strongest
pair of hob-nailed boots. Absolutely!
The dance had just
finished, and Cyril and his pals had shuffled off into the wings when a voi=
ce
spoke from the darkness on my right.
"Pop!"<= o:p>
Old Blumenfield
clapped his hands, and the hero, who had just been about to get the next li=
ne
off his diaphragm, cheesed it. I peered into the shadows. Who should it be =
but
Jeeves's little playmate with the freckles! He was now strolling down the a=
isle
with his hands in his pockets as if the place belonged to him. An air of
respectful attention seemed to pervade the building.
"Pop," =
said
the stripling, "that number's no good." Old Blumenfield beamed ov=
er
his shoulder.
"Don't you l=
ike
it, darling?"
"It gives me=
a
pain."
"You're dead
right."
"You want
something zippy there. Something with a bit of jazz to it!"
"Quite right=
, my
boy. I'll make a note of it. All right. Go on!"
I turned to Georg=
e,
who was muttering to himself in rather an overwrought way.
"I say, Geor=
ge,
old man, who the dickens is that kid?"
Old George groane=
d a
bit hollowly, as if things were a trifle thick.
"I didn't kn=
ow
he had crawled in! It's Blumenfield's son. Now we're going to have a Hades =
of a
time!"
"Does he alw=
ays
run things like this?"
"Always!&quo=
t;
"But why does
old Blumenfield listen to him?"
"Nobody seem=
s to
know. It may be pure fatherly love, or he may regard him as a mascot. My own
idea is that he thinks the kid has exactly the amount of intelligence of the
average member of the audience, and that what makes a hit with him will ple=
ase
the general public. While, conversely, what he doesn't like will be too rot=
ten
for anyone. The kid is a pest, a wart, and a pot of poison, and should be
strangled!"
The rehearsal went
on. The hero got off his line. There was a slight outburst of frightfulness
between the stage-manager and a Voice named Bill that came from somewhere n=
ear
the roof, the subject under discussion being where the devil Bill's
"ambers" were at that particular juncture. Then things went on ag=
ain
until the moment arrived for Cyril's big scene.
I was still a tri=
fle
hazy about the plot, but I had got on to the fact that Cyril was some sort =
of
an English peer who had come over to America doubtless for the best reasons=
. So
far he had only had two lines to say. One was "Oh, I say!" and the
other was "Yes, by Jove!"; but I seemed to recollect, from hearing
him read his part, that pretty soon he was due rather to spread himself. I =
sat
back in my chair and waited for him to bob up.
He bobbed up about
five minutes later. Things had got a bit stormy by that time. The Voice and=
the
stage-director had had another of their love-feasts--this time something to=
do
with why Bill's "blues" weren't on the job or something. And, alm=
ost
as soon as that was over, there was a bit of unpleasantness because a flowe=
r-pot
fell off a window-ledge and nearly brained the hero. The atmosphere was con=
sequently
more or less hotted up when Cyril, who had been hanging about at the back of
the stage, breezed down centre and toed the mark for his most substantial c=
hunk
of entertainment. The heroine had been saying something--I forget what--and=
all
the chorus, with Cyril at their head, had begun to surge round her in the
restless sort of way those chappies always do when there's a number coming
along.
Cyril's first line
was, "Oh, I say, you know, you mustn't say that, really!" and it
seemed to me he passed it over the larynx with a goodish deal of vim and
je-ne-sais-quoi. But, by Jove, before the heroine had time for the come-bac=
k,
our little friend with the freckles had risen to lodge a protest.
"Pop!"<= o:p>
"Yes,
darling?"
"That one's =
no
good!"
"Which one,
darling?"
"The one wit=
h a
face like a fish."
"But they all
have faces like fish, darling."
The child seemed =
to
see the justice of this objection. He became more definite.
"The ugly
one."
"Which ugly =
one?
That one?" said old Blumenfield, pointing to Cyril.
"Yep! He's
rotten!"
"I thought so
myself."
"He's a
pill!"
"You're dead
right, my boy. I've noticed it for some time."
Cyril had been ga=
ping
a bit while these few remarks were in progress. He now shot down to the
footlights. Even from where I was sitting, I could see that these harsh wor=
ds
had hit the old Bassington-Bassington family pride a frightful wallop. He
started to get pink in the ears, and then in the nose, and then in the chee=
ks,
till in about a quarter of a minute he looked pretty much like an explosion=
in
a tomato cannery on a sunset evening.
"What the de=
uce
do you mean?"
"What the de=
uce
do you mean?" shouted old Blumenfield. "Don't yell at me across t=
he
footlights!"
"I've a dash=
ed
good mind to come down and spank that little brute!"
"What!"=
"A dashed go=
od
mind!"
Old Blumenfield
swelled like a pumped-up tyre. He got rounder than ever.
"See here,
mister--I don't know your darn name----!"
"My name's B=
assington-Bassington,
and the jolly old Bassington-Bassingtons--I mean the Bassington-Bassingtons
aren't accustomed----"
Old Blumenfield t=
old
him in a few brief words pretty much what he thought of the
Bassington-Bassingtons and what they weren't accustomed to. The whole stren=
gth
of the company rallied round to enjoy his remarks. You could see them jutti=
ng
out from the wings and protruding from behind trees.
"You got to =
work
good for my pop!" said the stout child, waggling his head reprovingly =
at
Cyril.
"I don't want
any bally cheek from you!" said Cyril, gurgling a bit.
"What's
that?" barked old Blumenfield. "Do you understand that this boy i=
s my
son?"
"Yes, I
do," said Cyril. "And you both have my sympathy!"
"You're
fired!" bellowed old Blumenfield, swelling a good bit more. "Get =
out
of my theatre!"
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
About half-past t=
en
next morning, just after I had finished lubricating the good old interior w=
ith
a soothing cup of Oolong, Jeeves filtered into my bedroom, and said that Cy=
ril
was waiting to see me in the sitting-room.
"How does he
look, Jeeves?"
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"What does M=
r.
Bassington-Bassington look like?"
"It is hardl=
y my
place, sir, to criticise the facial peculiarities of your friends."
"I don't mean
that. I mean, does he appear peeved and what not?"
"Not noticea=
bly,
sir. His manner is tranquil."
"That's
rum!"
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"Nothing. Sh=
ow
him in, will you?"
I'm bound to say I had expected to see Cyril showing a few more traces of last night's battle.= I was looking for a bit of the overwrought soul and the quivering ganglions, = if you know what I mean. He seemed pretty ordinary and quite fairly cheerful.<= o:p>
"Hallo, Woos=
ter,
old thing!"
"Cheero!&quo=
t;
"I just look=
ed
in to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?&q=
uot;
"Yes. I'm of=
f to
Washington in an hour." He sat down on the bed. "You know, Wooste=
r,
old top," he went on, "I've been thinking it all over, and really=
it
doesn't seem quite fair to the jolly old guv'nor, my going on the stage and=
so
forth. What do you think?"
"I see what =
you
mean."
"I mean to s=
ay,
he sent me over here to broaden my jolly old mind and words to that effect,
don't you know, and I can't help thinking it would be a bit of a jar for the
old boy if I gave him the bird and went on the stage instead. I don't know =
if
you understand me, but what I mean to say is, it's a sort of question of
conscience."
"Can you lea=
ve
the show without upsetting everything?"
"Oh, that's =
all
right. I've explained everything to old Blumenfield, and he quite sees my
position. Of course, he's sorry to lose me--said he didn't see how he could
fill my place and all that sort of thing--but, after all, even if it does l=
and
him in a bit of a hole, I think I'm right in resigning my part, don't
you?"
"Oh,
absolutely."
"I thought y=
ou'd
agree with me. Well, I ought to be shifting. Awfully glad to have seen
something of you, and all that sort of rot. Pip-pip!"
"Toodle-oo!&=
quot;
He sallied forth,
having told all those bally lies with the clear, blue, pop-eyed gaze of a y=
oung
child. I rang for Jeeves. You know, ever since last night I had been exerci=
sing
the old bean to some extent, and a good deal of light had dawned upon me.
"Jeeves!&quo=
t;
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"Did you put that pie-faced infant up to bally-ragging Mr. Bassington-Bassington?"<= o:p>
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"Oh, you know
what I mean. Did you tell him to get Mr. Bassington-Bassington sacked from =
the
'Ask Dad' company?"
"I would not
take such a liberty, sir." He started to put out my clothes. "It =
is
possible that young Master Blumenfield may have gathered from casual remark=
s of
mine that I did not consider the stage altogether a suitable sphere for Mr.
Bassington-Bassington."
"I say, Jeev=
es,
you know, you're a bit of a marvel."
"I endeavour=
to
give satisfaction, sir."
"And I'm
frightfully obliged, if you know what I mean. Aunt Agatha would have had
sixteen or seventeen fits if you hadn't headed him off."
"I fancy the=
re
might have been some little friction and unpleasantness, sir. I am laying o=
ut
the blue suit with the thin red stripe, sir. I fancy the effect will be
pleasing."
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
It's a rummy thin=
g,
but I had finished breakfast and gone out and got as far as the lift before=
I
remembered what it was that I had meant to do to reward Jeeves for his real=
ly
sporting behaviour in this matter of the chump Cyril. It cut me to the hear=
t to
do it, but I had decided to give him his way and let those purple socks pass
out of my life. After all, there are times when a cove must make sacrifices=
. I
was just going to nip back and break the glad news to him, when the lift ca=
me
up, so I thought I would leave it till I got home.
The coloured chap=
pie
in charge of the lift looked at me, as I hopped in, with a good deal of qui=
et
devotion and what not.
"I wish to t=
hank
yo', suh," he said, "for yo' kindness."
"Eh? What?&q=
uot;
"Misto' Jeev=
es
done give me them purple socks, as you told him. Thank yo' very much,
suh!"
I looked down. The
blighter was a blaze of mauve from the ankle-bone southward. I don't know w=
hen
I've seen anything so dressy.
"Oh, ah! Not=
at
all! Right-o! Glad you like them!" I said.
Well, I mean to s=
ay,
what? Absolutely!
JEEVES IN THE SPRINGTIME<=
/span>
"'Morning, Jeeves," I sai=
d.
"Good mornin=
g,
sir," said Jeeves.
He put the good o=
ld
cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and I took a refreshing sip. Just
right, as usual. Not too hot, not too sweet, not too weak, not too strong, =
not
too much milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer. A most amazing cove,
Jeeves. So dashed competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll=
say
it again. I mean to say, take just one small instance. Every other valet I'=
ve
ever had used to barge into my room in the morning while I was still asleep,
causing much misery; but Jeeves seems to know when I'm awake by a sort of t=
elepathy.
He always floats in with the cup exactly two minutes after I come to life.
Makes a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow's day.
"How's the
weather, Jeeves?"
"Exceptional=
ly
clement, sir."
"Anything in=
the
papers?"
"Some slight
friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing."
"I say, Jeev=
es,
a man I met at the club last night told me to put my shirt on Privateer for=
the
two o'clock race this afternoon. How about it?"
"I should not
advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."
That was enough f=
or
me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn't say, but he knows. There was a time when I
would laugh lightly, and go ahead, and lose my little all against his advic=
e,
but not now.
"Talking of
shirts," I said, "have those mauve ones I ordered arrived yet?&qu=
ot;
"Yes, sir. I
sent them back."
"Sent them
back?"
"Yes, sir. T=
hey
would not have become you."
Well, I must say =
I'd
thought fairly highly of those shirtings, but I bowed to superior knowledge.
Weak? I don't know. Most fellows, no doubt, are all for having their valets
confine their activities to creasing trousers and what not without trying to
run the home; but it's different with Jeeves. Right from the first day he c=
ame
to me, I have looked on him as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend.
"Mr. Little =
rang
up on the telephone a few moments ago, sir. I informed him that you were not
yet awake."
"Did he leav=
e a
message?"
"No, sir. He
mentioned that he had a matter of importance to discuss with you, but confi=
ded
no details."
"Oh, well, I
expect I shall be seeing him at the club."
"No doubt,
sir."
I wasn't what you might call in a fever of impatience. Bingo Little is a chap I was at school with, and we see a lot of each other still. He's the nephew of old Mortimer Little, who retired from business recently with a goodish pile. (You've probably heard of Little's Liniment--It Limbers Up the Legs.) Bingo biffs a= bout London on a pretty comfortable allowance given him by his uncle, and leads = on the whole a fairly unclouded life. It wasn't likely that anything which he described as a matter of importance would turn out to be really so frightfu= lly important. I took it that he had discovered some new brand of cigarette which he wante= d me to try, or something like that, and didn't spoil my breakfast by worrying.<= o:p>
After breakfast I=
lit
a cigarette and went to the open window to inspect the day. It certainly was
one of the best and brightest.
"Jeeves,&quo=
t; I
said.
"Sir?" =
said
Jeeves. He had been clearing away the breakfast things, but at the sound of=
the
young master's voice cheesed it courteously.
"You were
absolutely right about the weather. It is a juicy morning."
"Decidedly,
sir."
"Spring and =
all
that."
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"In the spri=
ng,
Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove."
"So I have b=
een
informed, sir."
"Right ho! T=
hen bring
me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I'm going into
the Park to do pastoral dances."
I don't know if y=
ou
know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April
and the beginning of May, when the sky's a light blue, with cotton-wool clo=
uds,
and there's a bit of a breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeli=
ng.
Romantic, if you know what I mean. I'm not much of a ladies' man, but on th=
is
particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charm=
ing girl
to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it w=
as a
bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking
perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.
"Hallo, Bert=
ie,"
said Bingo.
"My God,
man!" I gargled. "The cravat! The gent's neckwear! Why? For what
reason?"
"Oh, the
tie?" He blushed. "I--er--I was given it."
He seemed
embarrassed, so I dropped the subject. We toddled along a bit, and sat down=
on
a couple of chairs by the Serpentine.
"Jeeves tell=
s me
you want to talk to me about something," I said.
"Eh?" s=
aid
Bingo, with a start. "Oh yes, yes. Yes."
I waited for him =
to
unleash the topic of the day, but he didn't seem to want to get going.
Conversation languished. He stared straight ahead of him in a glassy sort of
manner.
"I say,
Bertie," he said, after a pause of about an hour and a quarter.
"Hallo!"=
;
"Do you like=
the
name Mabel?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You don't t=
hink
there's a kind of music in the word, like the wind rustling gently through =
the
tree-tops?"
"No."
He seemed
disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.
"Of course, =
you
wouldn't. You always were a fatheaded worm without any soul, weren't you?&q=
uot;
"Just as you
say. Who is she? Tell me all."
For I realised now
that poor old Bingo was going through it once again. Ever since I have known
him--and we were at school together--he has been perpetually falling in love
with someone, generally in the spring, which seems to act on him like magic=
. At
school he had the finest collection of actresses' photographs of anyone of =
his
time; and at Oxford his romantic nature was a byword.
"You'd better
come along and meet her at lunch," he said, looking at his watch.
"A ripe
suggestion," I said. "Where are you meeting her? At the Ritz?&quo=
t;
"Near the
Ritz."
He was geographic=
ally
accurate. About fifty yards east of the Ritz there is one of those blighted
tea-and-bun shops you see dotted about all over London, and into this, if
you'll believe me, young Bingo dived like a homing rabbit; and before I had
time to say a word we were wedged in at a table, on the brink of a silent p=
ool
of coffee left there by an early luncher.
I'm bound to say I
couldn't quite follow the development of the scenario. Bingo, while not
absolutely rolling in the stuff, has always had a fair amount of the ready.
Apart from what he got from his uncle, I knew that he had finished up the
jumping season well on the right side of the ledger. Why, then, was he lunc=
hing
the girl at this God-forsaken eatery? It couldn't be because he was hard up=
.
Just then the
waitress arrived. Rather a pretty girl.
"Aren't we g=
oing
to wait----?" I started to say to Bingo, thinking it somewhat thick th=
at,
in addition to asking a girl to lunch with him in a place like this, he sho=
uld
fling himself on the foodstuffs before she turned up, when I caught sight of
his face, and stopped.
The man was goggl=
ing.
His entire map was suffused with a rich blush. He looked like the Soul's
Awakening done in pink.
"Hallo,
Mabel!" he said, with a sort of gulp.
"Hallo!"
said the girl.
"Mabel,"
said Bingo, "this is Bertie Wooster, a pal of mine."
"Pleased to =
meet
you," she said. "Nice morning."
"Fine,"=
I
said.
"You see I'm
wearing the tie," said Bingo.
"It suits you
beautiful," said the girl.
Personally, if an= yone had told me that a tie like that suited me, I should have risen and struck = them on the mazzard, regardless of their age and sex; but poor old Bingo simply = got all flustered with gratification, and smirked in the most gruesome manner.<= o:p>
"Well, what'=
s it
going to be to-day?" asked the girl, introducing the business touch in=
to
the conversation.
Bingo studied the
menu devoutly.
"I'll have a=
cup
of cocoa, cold veal and ham pie, slice of fruit cake, and a macaroon. Same =
for
you, Bertie?"
I gazed at the ma=
n,
revolted. That he could have been a pal of mine all these years and think me
capable of insulting the old turn with this sort of stuff cut me to the qui=
ck.
"Or how abou=
t a
bit of hot steak-pudding, with a sparkling limado to wash it down?" sa=
id
Bingo.
You know, the way
love can change a fellow is really frightful to contemplate. This chappie
before me, who spoke in that absolutely careless way of macaroons and limad=
o,
was the man I had seen in happier days telling the head-waiter at Claridge's
exactly how he wanted the chef to prepare the sole frite au gourmet aux
champignons, and saying he would jolly well sling it back if it wasn't just
right. Ghastly! Ghastly!
A roll and butter=
and
a small coffee seemed the only things on the list that hadn't been specially
prepared by the nastier-minded members of the Borgia family for people they=
had
a particular grudge against, so I chose them, and Mabel hopped it.
"Well?"
said Bingo rapturously.
I took it that he
wanted my opinion of the female poisoner who had just left us.
"Very
nice," I said.
He seemed
dissatisfied.
"You don't t=
hink
she's the most wonderful girl you ever saw?" he said wistfully.
"Oh,
absolutely!" I said, to appease the blighter. "Where did you meet=
her?"
"At a subscr=
iption
dance at Camberwell."
"What on ear=
th
were you doing at a subscription dance at Camberwell?"
"Your man Je=
eves
asked me if I would buy a couple of tickets. It was in aid of some charity =
or
other."
"Jeeves? I
didn't know he went in for that sort of thing."
"Well, I sup=
pose
he has to relax a bit every now and then. Anyway, he was there, swinging a
dashed efficient shoe. I hadn't meant to go at first, but I turned up for a
lark. Oh, Bertie, think what I might have missed!"
"What might =
you
have missed?" I asked, the old lemon being slightly clouded.
"Mabel, you
chump. If I hadn't gone I shouldn't have met Mabel."
"Oh, ah!&quo=
t;
At this point Bin=
go
fell into a species of trance, and only came out of it to wrap himself round
the pie and macaroon.
"Bertie,&quo=
t;
he said, "I want your advice."
"Carry on.&q=
uot;
"At least, n=
ot
your advice, because that wouldn't be much good to anybody. I mean, you're a
pretty consummate old ass, aren't you? Not that I want to hurt your feeling=
s,
of course."
"No, no, I s=
ee
that."
"What I wish=
you
would do is to put the whole thing to that fellow Jeeves of yours, and see =
what
he suggests. You've often told me that he has helped other pals of yours ou=
t of
messes. From what you tell me, he's by way of being the brains of the famil=
y."
"He's never =
let
me down yet."
"Then put my
case to him."
"What
case?"
"My
problem."
"What
problem?"
"Why, you po=
or
fish, my uncle, of course. What do you think my uncle's going to say to all
this? If I sprang it on him cold, he'd tie himself in knots on the
hearthrug."
"One of these
emotional Johnnies, eh?"
"Somehow or
other his mind has got to be prepared to receive the news. But how?"
"Ah!"
"That's a lo=
t of
help, that 'ah'! You see, I'm pretty well dependent on the old boy. If he c=
ut
off my allowance, I should be very much in the soup. So you put the whole b=
inge
to Jeeves and see if he can't scare up a happy ending somehow. Tell him my
future is in his hands, and that, if the wedding bells ring out, he can rel=
y on
me, even unto half my kingdom. Well, call it ten quid. Jeeves would exert
himself with ten quid on the horizon, what?"
"Undoubtedly=
,"
I said.
I wasn't in the l=
east
surprised at Bingo wanting to lug Jeeves into his private affairs like this=
. It
was the first thing I would have thought of doing myself if I had been in a=
ny
hole of any description. As I have frequently had occasion to observe, he i=
s a
bird of the ripest intellect, full of bright ideas. If anybody could fix th=
ings
for poor old Bingo, he could.
I stated the case=
to
him that night after dinner.
"Jeeves.&quo=
t;
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"Are you busy
just now?"
"No, sir.&qu=
ot;
"I mean, not
doing anything in particular?"
"No, sir. It=
is
my practice at this hour to read some improving book; but, if you desire my
services, this can easily be postponed, or, indeed, abandoned altogether.&q=
uot;
"Well, I want
your advice. It's about Mr. Little."
"Young Mr.
Little, sir, or the elder Mr. Little, his uncle, who lives in Pounceby
Gardens?"
Jeeves seemed to =
know
everything. Most amazing thing. I'd been pally with Bingo practically all my
life, and yet I didn't remember ever having heard that his uncle lived anyw=
here
in particular.
"How did you
know he lived in Pounceby Gardens?" I said.
"I am on ter=
ms
of some intimacy with the elder Mr. Little's cook, sir. In fact, there is an
understanding."
I'm bound to say =
that
this gave me a bit of a start. Somehow I'd never thought of Jeeves going in=
for
that sort of thing.
"Do you mean
you're engaged?"
"It may be s=
aid
to amount to that, sir."
"Well,
well!"
"She is a re=
markably
excellent cook, sir," said Jeeves, as though he felt called on to give
some explanation. "What was it you wished to ask me about Mr.
Little?"
I sprang the deta=
ils
on him.
"And that's =
how
the matter stands, Jeeves," I said. "I think we ought to rally ro=
und
a trifle and help poor old Bingo put the thing through. Tell me about old M=
r.
Little. What sort of a chap is he?"
"A somewhat
curious character, sir. Since retiring from business he has become a great
recluse, and now devotes himself almost entirely to the pleasures of the
table."
"Greedy hog,=
you
mean?"
"I would not,
perhaps, take the liberty of describing him in precisely those terms, sir. =
He
is what is usually called a gourmet. Very particular about what he eats, and
for that reason sets a high value on Miss Watson's services."
"The cook?&q=
uot;
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"Well, it lo=
oks
to me as though our best plan would be to shoot young Bingo in on him after
dinner one night. Melting mood, I mean to say, and all that."
"The difficu=
lty
is, sir, that at the moment Mr. Little is on a diet, owing to an attack of
gout."
"Things begi=
n to
look wobbly."
"No, sir, I
fancy that the elder Mr. Little's misfortune may be turned to the younger M=
r.
Little's advantage. I was speaking only the other day to Mr. Little's valet,
and he was telling me that it has become his principal duty to read to Mr.
Little in the evenings. If I were in your place, sir, I should send young M=
r.
Little to read to his uncle."
"Nephew's
devotion, you mean? Old man touched by kindly action, what?"
"Partly that,
sir. But I would rely more on young Mr. Little's choice of literature."=
;
"That's no g=
ood.
Jolly old Bingo has a kind face, but when it comes to literature he stops at
the Sporting Times."
"That diffic=
ulty
may be overcome. I would be happy to select books for Mr. Little to read.
Perhaps I might explain my idea further?"
"I can't say=
I
quite grasp it yet."
"The method
which I advocate is what, I believe, the advertisers call Direct Suggestion,
sir, consisting as it does of driving an idea home by constant repetition. =
You
may have had experience of the system?"
"You mean th= ey keep on telling you that some soap or other is the best, and after a bit you come under the influence and charge round the corner and buy a cake?"<= o:p>
"Exactly, si=
r. The
same method was the basis of all the most valuable propaganda during the re=
cent
war. I see no reason why it should not be adopted to bring about the desired
result with regard to the subject's views on class distinctions. If young M=
r.
Little were to read day after day to his uncle a series of narratives in wh=
ich
marriage with young persons of an inferior social status was held up as both
feasible and admirable, I fancy it would prepare the elder Mr. Little's mind
for the reception of the information that his nephew wishes to marry a wait=
ress
in a tea-shop."
"Are there a=
ny
books of that sort nowadays? The only ones I ever see mentioned in the pape=
rs
are about married couples who find life grey, and can't stick each other at=
any
price."
"Yes, sir, t=
here
are a great many, neglected by the reviewers but widely read. You have never
encountered 'All for Love," by Rosie M. Banks?"
"No."
"Nor 'A Red,=
Red
Summer Rose,' by the same author?"
"No."
"I have an a=
unt,
sir, who owns an almost complete set of Rosie M. Banks'. I could easily bor=
row
as many volumes as young Mr. Little might require. They make very light,
attractive reading."
"Well, it's
worth trying."
"I should
certainly recommend the scheme, sir."
"All right,
then. Toddle round to your aunt's to-morrow and grab a couple of the fruiti=
est.
We can but have a dash at it."
"Precisely,
sir."
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
Bingo reported th=
ree
days later that Rosie M. Banks was the goods and beyond a question the stuf=
f to
give the troops. Old Little had jibbed somewhat at first at the proposed ch=
ange
of literary diet, he not being much of a lad for fiction and having stuck
hitherto exclusively to the heavier monthly reviews; but Bingo had got chap=
ter
one of "All for Love" past his guard before he knew what was
happening, and after that there was nothing to it. Since then they had fini=
shed
"A Red, Red Summer Rose," "Madcap Myrtle" and "Onl=
y a
Factory Girl," and were halfway through "The Courtship of Lord
Strathmorlick."
Bingo told me all
this in a husky voice over an egg beaten up in sherry. The only blot on the
thing from his point of view was that it wasn't doing a bit of good to the =
old
vocal cords, which were beginning to show signs of cracking under the strai=
n.
He had been looking his symptoms up in a medical dictionary, and he thought=
he
had got "clergyman's throat." But against this you had to set the
fact that he was making an undoubted hit in the right quarter, and also that
after the evening's reading he always stayed on to dinner; and, from what h=
e told
me, the dinners turned out by old Little's cook had to be tasted to be
believed. There were tears in the old blighter's eyes as he got on the subj=
ect
of the clear soup. I suppose to a fellow who for weeks had been tackling
macaroons and limado it must have been like Heaven.
Old Little wasn't
able to give any practical assistance at these banquets, but Bingo said tha=
t he
came to the table and had his whack of arrowroot, and sniffed the dishes, a=
nd
told stories of entrées he had had in the past, and sketched out
scenarios of what he was going to do to the bill of fare in the future, when
the doctor put him in shape; so I suppose he enjoyed himself, too, in a way.
Anyhow, things seemed to be buzzing along quite satisfactorily, and Bingo s=
aid he
had got an idea which, he thought, was going to clinch the thing. He wouldn=
't
tell me what it was, but he said it was a pippin.
"We make
progress, Jeeves," I said.
"That is very
satisfactory, sir."
"Mr. Little
tells me that when he came to the big scene in 'Only a Factory Girl,' his u=
ncle
gulped like a stricken bull-pup."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Where Lord
Claude takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says----"
"I am famili=
ar
with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It was a great favourite of=
my
aunt's."
"I think we'=
re
on the right track."
"It would se=
em
so, sir."
"In fact, th=
is
looks like being another of your successes. I've always said, and I always
shall say, that for sheer brain, Jeeves, you stand alone. All the other gre=
at
thinkers of the age are simply in the crowd, watching you go by."
"Thank you v=
ery
much, sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction."
About a week after
this, Bingo blew in with the news that his uncle's gout had ceased to troub=
le
him, and that on the morrow he would be back at the old stand working away =
with
knife and fork as before.
"And, by the
way," said Bingo, "he wants you to lunch with him tomorrow."=
"Me? Why me?=
He
doesn't know I exist."
"Oh, yes, he
does. I've told him about you."
"What have y=
ou
told him?"
"Oh, various
things. Anyhow, he wants to meet you. And take my tip, laddie--you go! I sh=
ould
think lunch to-morrow would be something special."
I don't know why =
it
was, but even then it struck me that there was something dashed odd--almost
sinister, if you know what I mean--about young Bingo's manner. The old egg =
had
the air of one who has something up his sleeve.
"There is mo=
re
in this than meets the eye," I said. "Why should your uncle ask a
fellow to lunch whom he's never seen?"
"My dear old
fathead, haven't I just said that I've been telling him all about you--that
you're my best pal--at school together, and all that sort of thing?"
"But even
then--and another thing. Why are you so dashed keen on my going?"
Bingo hesitated f=
or a
moment.
"Well, I tol=
d you
I'd got an idea. This is it. I want you to spring the news on him. I haven't
the nerve myself."
"What! I'm
hanged if I do!"
"And you call
yourself a pal of mine!"
"Yes, I know;
but there are limits."
"Bertie,&quo=
t;
said Bingo reproachfully, "I saved your life once."
"When?"=
"Didn't I? It
must have been some other fellow, then. Well, anyway, we were boys together=
and
all that. You can't let me down."
"Oh, all
right," I said. "But, when you say you haven't nerve enough for a=
ny
dashed thing in the world, you misjudge yourself. A fellow who----"
"Cheerio!&qu=
ot;
said young Bingo. "One-thirty to-morrow. Don't be late."
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
I'm bound to say =
that
the more I contemplated the binge, the less I liked it. It was all very well
for Bingo to say that I was slated for a magnificent lunch; but what good is
the best possible lunch to a fellow if he is slung out into the street on h=
is
ear during the soup course? However, the word of a Wooster is his bond and =
all
that sort of rot, so at one-thirty next day I tottered up the steps of No. =
16,
Pounceby Gardens, and punched the bell. And half a minute later I was up in=
the
drawing-room, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in my lif=
e.
The motto of the
Little family was evidently "variety." Young Bingo is long and th=
in
and hasn't had a superfluous ounce on him since we first met; but the uncle
restored the average and a bit over. The hand which grasped mine wrapped it
round and enfolded it till I began to wonder if I'd ever get it out without
excavating machinery.
"Mr. Wooster=
, I
am gratified--I am proud--I am honoured."
It seemed to me t=
hat
young Bingo must have boosted me to some purpose.
"Oh, ah!&quo=
t; I
said.
He stepped back a
bit, still hanging on to the good right hand.
"You are very
young to have accomplished so much!"
I couldn't follow=
the
train of thought. The family, especially my Aunt Agatha, who has savaged me
incessantly from childhood up, have always rather made a point of the fact =
that
mine is a wasted life, and that, since I won the prize at my first school f=
or
the best collection of wild flowers made during the summer holidays, I have=
n't
done a dam' thing to land me on the nation's scroll of fame. I was wonderin=
g if
he couldn't have got me mixed up with someone else, when the telephone-bell
rang outside in the hall, and the maid came in to say that I was wanted. I
buzzed down, and found it was young Bingo.
"Hallo!"
said young Bingo. "So you've got there? Good man! I knew I could rely =
on
you. I say, old crumpet, did my uncle seem pleased to see you?"
"Absolutely =
all
over me. I can't make it out."
"Oh, that's =
all
right. I just rang up to explain. The fact is, old man, I know you won't mi=
nd,
but I told him that you were the author of those books I've been reading to=
him."
"What!"=
"Yes, I said
that 'Rosie M. Banks' was your pen-name, and you didn't want it generally
known, because you were a modest, retiring sort of chap. He'll listen to you
now. Absolutely hang on your words. A brightish idea, what? I doubt if Jeev=
es
in person could have thought up a better one than that. Well, pitch it stro=
ng,
old lad, and keep steadily before you the fact that I must have my allowance
raised. I can't possibly marry on what I've got now. If this film is to end
with the slow fade-out on the embrace, at least double is indicated. Well, =
that's
that. Cheerio!"
And he rang off. =
At
that moment the gong sounded, and the genial host came tumbling downstairs =
like
the delivery of a ton of coals.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
I always look bac=
k to
that lunch with a sort of aching regret. It was the lunch of a lifetime, an=
d I
wasn't in a fit state to appreciate it. Subconsciously, if you know what I
mean, I could see it was pretty special, but I had got the wind up to such a
frightful extent over the ghastly situation in which young Bingo had landed=
me
that its deeper meaning never really penetrated. Most of the time I might h=
ave
been eating sawdust for all the good it did me.
Old Little struck=
the
literary note right from the start.
"My nephew h=
as
probably told you that I have been making a close study of your books of
late?" he began.
"Yes. He did
mention it. How--er--how did you like the bally things?"
He gazed reverent=
ly
at me.
"Mr. Wooster=
, I
am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened to the=
m.
It amazes me that a man as young as you can have been able to plumb human
nature so surely to its depths; to play with so unerring a hand on the
quivering heart-strings of your reader; to write novels so true, so human, =
so
moving, so vital!"
"Oh, it's ju=
st a
knack," I said.
The good old pers=
p.
was bedewing my forehead by this time in a pretty lavish manner. I don't kn=
ow
when I've been so rattled.
"Do you find=
the
room a trifle warm?"
"Oh, no, no,
rather not. Just right."
"Then it's t=
he
pepper. If my cook has a fault--which I am not prepared to admit--it is that
she is inclined to stress the pepper a trifle in her made dishes. By the wa=
y,
do you like her cooking?"
I was so relieved
that we had got off the subject of my literary output that I shouted approv=
al
in a ringing baritone.
"I am deligh=
ted
to hear it, Mr. Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to my mind that woman is a
genius."
"Absolutely!=
"
I said.
"She has been
with me seven years, and in all that time I have not known her guilty of a
single lapse from the highest standard. Except once, in the winter of 1917,
when a purist might have condemned a certain mayonnaise of hers as lacking =
in
creaminess. But one must make allowances. There had been several air-raids
about that time, and no doubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is per=
fect
in this world, Mr. Wooster, and I have had my cross to bear. For seven year=
s I
have lived in constant apprehension lest some evilly-disposed person might =
lure
her from my employment. To my certain knowledge she has received offers,
lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You may judge of my dismay, =
Mr.
Wooster, when only this morning the bolt fell. She gave notice!"
"Good
Lord!"
"Your
consternation does credit, if I may say so, to the heart of the author of 'A
Red, Red Summer Rose.' But I am thankful to say the worst has not happened.=
The
matter has been adjusted. Jane is not leaving me."
"Good egg!&q=
uot;
"Good egg,
indeed--though the expression is not familiar to me. I do not remember havi=
ng
come across it in your books. And, speaking of your books, may I say that w=
hat
has impressed me about them even more than the moving poignancy of the actu=
al
narrative, is your philosophy of life. If there were more men like you, Mr.
Wooster, London would be a better place."
This was dead
opposite to my Aunt Agatha's philosophy of life, she having always rather g=
iven
me to understand that it is the presence in it of chappies like me that mak=
es
London more or less of a plague spot; but I let it go.
"Let me tell
you, Mr. Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defiance of the outworn
fetishes of a purblind social system. I appreciate it! You are big enough to
see that rank is but the guinea stamp and that, in the magnificent words of
Lord Bletchmore in 'Only a Factory Girl,' 'Be her origin ne'er so humble, a
good woman is the equal of the finest lady on earth!'"
I sat up.
"I say! Do y=
ou
think that?"
"I do, Mr.
Wooster. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when I was like other me=
n, a
slave to the idiotic convention which we call Class Distinction. But, since=
I
read your books----"
I might have known
it. Jeeves had done it again.
"You think i=
t's
all right for a chappie in what you might call a certain social position to=
marry
a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?"
"Most assure=
dly
I do, Mr. Wooster."
I took a deep bre=
ath,
and slipped him the good news.
"Young
Bingo--your nephew, you know--wants to marry a waitress," I said.
"I honour him
for it," said old Little.
"You don't
object?"
"On the
contrary."
I took another de=
ep
breath and shifted to the sordid side of the business.
"I hope you
won't think I'm butting in, don't you know," I said, "but--er--we=
ll,
how about it?"
"I fear I do=
not
quite follow you."
"Well, I mea=
n to
say, his allowance and all that. The money you're good enough to give him. =
He
was rather hoping that you might see your way to jerking up the total a
bit."
Old Little shook =
his
head regretfully.
"I fear that=
can
hardly be managed. You see, a man in my position is compelled to save every
penny. I will gladly continue my nephew's existing allowance, but beyond th=
at I
cannot go. It would not be fair to my wife."
"What! But
you're not married?"
"Not yet. Bu=
t I
propose to enter upon that holy state almost immediately. The lady who for
years has cooked so well for me honoured me by accepting my hand this very
morning." A cold gleam of triumph came into his eye. "Now let 'em=
try
to get her away from me!" he muttered, defiantly.
* *
"Young Mr.
Little has been trying frequently during the afternoon to reach you on the
telephone, sir," said Jeeves that night, when I got home.
"I'll bet he
has," I said. I had sent poor old Bingo an outline of the situation by
messenger-boy shortly after lunch.
"He seemed a
trifle agitated."
"I don't won=
der.
Jeeves," I said, "so brace up and bite the bullet. I'm afraid I've
bad news for you.
"That scheme=
of
yours--reading those books to old Mr. Little and all that--has blown out a
fuse."
"They did not
soften him?"
"They did.
That's the whole bally trouble. Jeeves, I'm sorry to say that fiancé=
e of
yours--Miss Watson, you know--the cook, you know--well, the long and the sh=
ort
of it is that she's chosen riches instead of honest worth, if you know what=
I
mean."
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"She's handed
you the mitten and gone and got engaged to old Mr. Little!"
"Indeed,
sir?"
"You don't s=
eem
much upset."
"That fact i=
s,
sir, I had anticipated some such outcome."
I stared at him.
"Then what on earth did you suggest the scheme for?"
"To tell you=
the
truth, sir, I was not wholly averse from a severance of my relations with M=
iss
Watson. In fact, I greatly desired it. I respect Miss Watson exceedingly, b=
ut I
have seen for a long time that we were not suited. Now, the other young per=
son
with whom I have an understanding----"
"Great Scott,
Jeeves! There isn't another?"
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"How long has
this been going on?"
"For some we=
eks,
sir. I was greatly attracted by her when I first met her at a subscription
dance at Camberwell."
"My sainted
aunt! Not----"
Jeeves inclined h=
is
head gravely.
"Yes, sir. B=
y an
odd coincidence it is the same young person that young Mr. Little--I have
placed the cigarettes on the small table. Good night, sir."
If a fellow has lots of money and l=
ots of
time and lots of curiosity about other fellows' business, it is astonishing,
don't you know, what a lot of strange affairs he can get mixed up in. Now, I
have money and curiosity and all the time there is. My name's Pepper--Reggie
Pepper. My uncle was the colliery-owner chappie, and he left me the dickens=
of a
pile. And ever since the lawyer slipped the stuff into my hand, whispering
"It's yours!" life seems to have been one thing after another.
For instance, the
dashed rummy case of dear old Archie. I first ran into old Archie when he w=
as
studying in Paris, and when he came back to London he looked me up, and we
celebrated. He always liked me because I didn't mind listening to his theor=
ies
of Art. For Archie, you must know, was an artist. Not an ordinary artist
either, but one of those fellows you read about who are several years ahead=
of
the times, and paint the sort of thing that people will be educated up to by
about 1999 or thereabouts.
Well, one day as I
was sitting in the club watching the traffic coming up one way and going do=
wn
the other, and thinking nothing in particular, in blew the old boy. He was
looking rather worried.
"Reggie, I w=
ant
your advice."
"You shall h=
ave
it," I said. "State your point, old top."
"It's like
this--I'm engaged to be married."
"My dear old
scout, a million con----"
"Yes, I know.
Thanks very much, and all that, but listen."
"What's the
trouble? Don't you like her?"
A kind of rapt
expression came over his face.
"Like her! W=
hy,
she's the only----"
He gibbered for a
spell. When he had calmed down, I said, "Well then, what's your
trouble?"
"Reggie,&quo=
t;
he said, "do you think a man is bound to tell his wife all about his p=
ast
life?"
"Oh, well,&q=
uot;
I said, "of course, I suppose she's prepared to find that a man
has--er--sowed his wild oats, don't you know, and all that sort of thing,
and----"
He seemed quite
irritated.
"Don't be a
chump. It's nothing like that. Listen. When I came back to London and start=
ed
to try and make a living by painting, I found that people simply wouldn't b=
uy
the sort of work I did at any price. Do you know, Reggie, I've been at it t=
hree
years now, and I haven't sold a single picture."
I whooped in a so=
rt
of amazed way, but I should have been far more startled if he'd told me he =
had
sold a picture. I've seen his pictures, and they are like nothing on earth.=
So
far as I can make out what he says, they aren't supposed to be. There's one=
in
particular, called "The Coming of Summer," which I sometimes dream
about when I've been hitting it up a shade too vigorously. It's all dots and
splashes, with a great eye staring out of the middle of the mess. It looks =
as
if summer, just as it was on the way, had stubbed its toe on a bomb. He tel=
ls
me it's his masterpiece, and that he will never do anything like it again. I
should like to have that in writing.
"Well, artis=
ts
eat, just the same as other people," he went on, "and personally I
like mine often and well cooked. Besides which, my sojourn in Paris gave me=
a
rather nice taste in light wines. The consequence was that I came to the
conclusion, after I had been back a few months, that something had to be do=
ne.
Reggie, do you by any remote chance read a paper called Funny Slices?"=
"Every
week."
He gazed at me wi=
th a
kind of wistful admiration.
"I envy you,
Reggie. Fancy being able to make a statement like that openly and without f=
ear.
Then I take it you know the Doughnut family?"
"I should sa=
y I
did."
His voice sank al=
most
to a whisper, and he looked over his shoulder nervously.
"Reggie, I do
them."
"You what?&q=
uot;
"I do them--=
draw
them--paint them. I am the creator of the Doughnut family."
I stared at him,
absolutely astounded. I was simply dumb. It was the biggest surprise of my
life. Why, dash it, the Doughnut family was the best thing in its line in
London. There is Pa Doughnut, Ma Doughnut, Aunt Bella, Cousin Joe, and Mabe=
l,
the daughter, and they have all sorts of slapstick adventures. Pa, Ma and A=
unt
Bella are pure gargoyles; Cousin Joe is a little more nearly semi-human, and
Mabel is a perfect darling. I had often wondered who did them, for they wer=
e unsigned,
and I had often thought what a deuced brainy fellow the chap must be. And a=
ll
the time it was old Archie. I stammered as I tried to congratulate him.
He winced.
"Don't gargl=
e,
Reggie, there's a good fellow," he said. "My nerves are all on ed=
ge.
Well, as I say, I do the Doughnuts. It was that or starvation. I got the id=
ea
one night when I had a toothache, and next day I took some specimens round =
to
an editor. He rolled in his chair, and told me to start in and go on till
further notice. Since then I have done them without a break. Well, there's =
the
position. I must go on drawing these infernal things, or I shall be pennile=
ss.
The question is, am I to tell her?"
"Tell her? Of
course you must tell her."
"Ah, but you
don't know her, Reggie. Have you ever heard of Eunice Nugent?"
"Not to my
knowledge."
"As she does=
n't
sprint up and down the joyway at the Hippodrome, I didn't suppose you
would."
I thought this ra=
ther
uncalled-for, seeing that, as a matter of fact, I scarcely know a dozen of =
the
Hippodrome chorus, but I made allowances for his state of mind.
"She's a
poetess," he went on, "and her work has appeared in lots of good
magazines. My idea is that she would be utterly horrified if she knew, and
could never be quite the same to me again. But I want you to meet her and j=
udge
for yourself. It's just possible that I am taking too morbid a view of the
matter, and I want an unprejudiced outside opinion. Come and lunch with us =
at
the Piccadilly tomorrow, will you?"
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
He was absolutely
right. One glance at Miss Nugent told me that the poor old boy had got the
correct idea. I hardly know how to describe the impression she made on me. =
On
the way to the Pic, Archie had told me that what first attracted him to her=
was
the fact that she was so utterly unlike Mabel Doughnut; but that had not
prepared me for what she really was. She was kind of intense, if you know w=
hat
I mean--kind of spiritual. She was perfectly pleasant, and drew me out about
golf and all that sort of thing; but all the time I felt that she considere=
d me
an earthy worm whose loftier soul-essence had been carelessly left out of h=
is
composition at birth. She made me wish that I had never seen a musical come=
dy
or danced on a supper table on New Year's Eve. And if that was the impressi=
on
she made on me, you can understand why poor old Archie jibbed at the idea of
bringing her Funny Slices, and pointing at the Doughnuts and saying,
"Me--I did it!" The notion was absolutely out of the question. The
shot wasn't on the board. I told Archie so directly we were alone.
"Old top,&qu=
ot;
I said, "you must keep it dark."
"I'm afraid =
so.
But I hate the thought of deceiving her."
"You must get
used to that now you're going to be a married man," I said.
"The trouble=
is,
how am I going to account for the fact that I can do myself pretty well?&qu=
ot;
"Why, tell h=
er
you have private means, of course. What's your money invested in?"
"Practically=
all
of it in B. and O. P. Rails. It is a devilish good thing. A pal of mine put=
me
onto it."
"Tell her th=
at
you have a pile of money in B. and O. P., then. She'll take it for granted =
it's
a legacy. A spiritual girl like Miss Nugent isn't likely to inquire
further."
"Reggie, I
believe you're right. It cuts both ways, that spiritual gag. I'll do it.&qu=
ot;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
They were married
quietly. I held the towel for Archie, and a spectacled girl with a mouth li=
ke a
rat-trap, who was something to do with the Woman's Movement, saw fair play =
for
Eunice. And then they went off to Scotland for their honeymoon. I wondered =
how
the Doughnuts were going to get on in old Archie's absence, but it seemed t=
hat
he had buckled down to it and turned out three months' supply in advance. H=
e told
me that long practice had enabled him to Doughnut almost without conscious
effort. When he came back to London he would give an hour a week to them an=
d do
them on his head. Pretty soft! It seemed to me that the marriage was going =
to
be a success.
One gets out of t=
ouch
with people when they marry. I am not much on the social-call game, and for
nearly six months I don't suppose I saw Archie more than twice or three tim=
es.
When I did, he appeared sound in wind and limb, and reported that married l=
ife
was all to the velvet, and that he regarded bachelors like myself as so many
excrescences on the social system. He compared me, if I remember rightly, t=
o a
wart, and advocated drastic treatment.
It was perhaps se=
ven
months after he had told Eunice that he endowed her with all his worldly
goods--she not suspecting what the parcel contained--that he came to me
unexpectedly one afternoon with a face so long and sick-looking that my fin=
ger
was on the button and I was ordering brandy and soda before he had time to
speak.
"Reggie,&quo=
t;
he said, "an awful thing has happened. Have you seen the paper
today?"
"Yes. Why?&q=
uot;
"Did you read
the Stock Exchange news? Did you see that some lunatic has been jumping aro=
und
with a club and hammering the stuffing out of B. and O. P.? This afternoon =
they
are worth practically nothing."
"By jove! And
all your money was in it. What rotten luck!" Then I spotted the silver
lining. "But, after all, it doesn't matter so very much. What I mean i=
s,
bang go your little savings and all that sort of thing; but, after all, you=
're
making quite a good income, so why worry?"
"I might have
known you would miss the point," he said. "Can't you understand t=
he
situation? This morning at breakfast Eunice got hold of the paper first.
'Archie,' she said, 'didn't you tell me all your money was in B. and O. P.?'
'Yes,' I said. 'Why?' 'Then we're ruined.' Now do you see? If I had had tim=
e to
think, I could have said that I had another chunk in something else, but I =
had
committed myself, I have either got to tell her about those infernal Doughn=
uts,
or else conceal the fact that I had money coming in."
"Great Scot!
What on earth are you going to do?"
"I can't thi=
nk.
We can struggle along in a sort of way, for it appears that she has small
private means of her own. The idea at present is that we shall live on them.
We're selling the car, and trying to get out of the rest of our lease up at=
the
flat, and then we're going to look about for a cheaper place, probably down
Chelsea way, so as to be near my studio. What was that stuff I've been
drinking? Ring for another of the same, there's a good fellow. In fact, I t=
hink
you had better keep your finger permanently on the bell. I shall want all t=
hey've
got."
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
The spectacle of a
fellow human being up to his neck in the consommé is painful, of cou=
rse,
but there's certainly what the advertisements at the top of magazine stories
call a "tense human interest" about it, and I'm bound to say that=
I
saw as much as possible of poor old Archie from now on. His sad case fascin=
ated
me. It was rather thrilling to see him wrestling with New Zealand mutton-ha=
sh
and draught beer down at his Chelsea flat, with all the suppressed anguish =
of a
man who has let himself get accustomed to delicate food and vintage wines, =
and
think that a word from him could send him whizzing back to the old life aga=
in whenever
he wished. But at what a cost, as they say in the novels. That was the catc=
h.
He might hate this new order of things, but his lips were sealed.
I personally came=
in
for a good deal of quiet esteem for the way in which I stuck to him in his
adversity. I don't think Eunice had thought much of me before, but now she
seemed to feel that I had formed a corner in golden hearts. I took advantag=
e of
this to try and pave the way for a confession on poor old Archie's part.
"I wonder,
Archie, old top," I said one evening after we had dined on mutton-hash=
and
were sitting round trying to forget it, "I wonder you don't try another
line in painting. I've heard that some of these fellows who draw for the co=
mic
papers----"
Mrs. Archie nippe=
d me
in the bud.
"How can you
suggest such a thing, Mr. Pepper? A man with Archie's genius! I know the pu=
blic
is not educated up to his work, but it is only a question of time. Archie
suffers, like all pioneers, from being ahead of his generation. But, thank
Heaven, he need not sully his genius by stooping----"
"No, no,&quo=
t; I
said. "Sorry. I only suggested it."
After that I gave
more time than ever to trying to think of a solution. Sometimes I would lie
awake at night, and my manner towards Wilberforce, my man, became so distra=
it
that it almost caused a rift. He asked me one morning which suit I would we=
ar
that day, and, by Jove, I said, "Oh, any of them. I don't mind."
There was a most frightful silence, and I woke up to find him looking at me
with such a dashed wounded expression in his eyes that I had to tip him a
couple of quid to bring him round again.
Well, you can't g=
o on
straining your brain like that forever without something breaking loose, and
one night, just after I had gone to bed, I got it. Yes, by gad, absolutely =
got
it. And I was so excited that I hopped out from under the blankets there and
then, and rang up old Archie on the phone.
"Archie, old
scout," I said, "can the misses hear what I'm saying? Well then,
don't say anything to give the show away. Keep on saying, 'Yes? Halloa?' so
that you can tell her it was someone on the wrong wire. I've got it, my boy.
All you've got to do to solve the whole problem is to tell her you've sold =
one
of your pictures. Make the price as big as you like. Come and lunch with me
tomorrow at the club, and we'll settle the details."
There was a pause,
and then Archie's voice said, "Halloa, halloa?" It might have bee=
n a
bit disappointing, only there was a tremble in it which made me understand =
how
happy I had made the old boy. I went back to bed and slept like a king.
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
* &nbs=
p;
*
Next day we lunch=
ed
together, and fixed the thing up. I have never seen anyone so supremely bra=
ced.
We examined the scheme from every angle and there wasn't a flaw in it. The =
only
difficulty was to hit on a plausible purchaser. Archie suggested me, but I
couldn't see it. I said it would sound fishy. Eventually I had a brain wave,
and suggested J. Bellingwood Brackett, the American millionaire. He lives in
London, and you see his name in the papers everyday as having bought some
painting or statue or something, so why shouldn't he buy Archie's "Com=
ing
of Summer?" And Archie said, "Exactly--why shouldn't he? And if he
had had any sense in his fat head, he would have done it long ago, dash
him!" Which shows you that dear old Archie was bracing up, for I've he=
ard
him use much the same language in happier days about a referee.
He went off, cram=
med
to the eyebrows with good food and happiness, to tell Mrs. Archie that all =
was
well, and that the old home was saved, and that Canterbury mutton might now=
be
definitely considered as off the bill of fare.
He told me on the
phone that night that he had made the price two thousand pounds, because he
needed the money, and what was two thousand to a man who had been fleecing =
the
widow and the orphan for forty odd years without a break? I thought the pri=
ce
was a bit high, but I agreed that J. Bellingwood could afford it. And
happiness, you might say, reigned supreme.
I don't know when
I've had such a nasty jar as I got when Wilberforce brought me the paper in
bed, and I languidly opened it and this jumped out and bit at me:
=
BELLINGWOOD BRACKETT DISCOVERS =
ENGLISH
GENIUS =
&nb=
sp; -----
PAYS STUPENDOUS P=
RICE
FOR YOUNG ARTIST'S PICTURE =
&nb=
sp; -----
HITHE=
RTO
UNKNOWN FUTURIST RECEIVED £2,000
Underneath there =
was
a column, some of it about Archie, the rest about the picture; and scattered
over the page were two photographs of old Archie, looking more like Pa Doug=
hnut
than anything human, and a smudged reproduction of "The Coming of
Summer"; and, believe me, frightful as the original of that weird exhi=
bit
looked, the reproduction had it licked to a whisper. It was one of the
ghastliest things I have ever seen.
Well, after the f=
irst
shock I recovered a bit. After all, it was fame for dear old Archie. As soo=
n as
I had had lunch I went down to the flat to congratulate him.
He was sitting th=
ere
with Mrs. Archie. He was looking a bit dazed, but she was simmering with jo=
y.
She welcomed me as the faithful friend.
"Isn't it
perfectly splendid, Mr. Pepper, to think that Archie's genius has at last b=
een
recognized? How quiet he kept it. I had no idea that Mr. Brackett was even
interested in his work. I wonder how he heard of it?"
"Oh, these
things get about," I said. "You can't keep a good man down."=
"Think of two
thousand pounds for one picture--and the first he has ever sold!"
"What beats
me," I said, "is how the papers got hold of it."
"Oh, I sent =
it
to the papers," said Mrs. Archie, in an offhand way.
"I wonder who
did the writing up," I said.
"They would =
do
that in the office, wouldn't they?" said Mrs. Archie.
"I suppose t=
hey
would," I said. "They are wonders at that sort of thing."
I couldn't help
wishing that Archie would enter into the spirit of the thing a little more =
and
perk up, instead of sitting there looking like a codfish. The thing seemed =
to
have stunned the poor chappie.
"After this,
Archie," I said, "all you have to do is to sit in your studio, wh=
ile
the police see that the waiting line of millionaires doesn't straggle over =
the
pavement. They'll fight----"
"What's
that?" said Archie, starting as if someone had dug a red-hot needle in=
to
his calf.
It was only a rin=
g at
the bell, followed by a voice asking if Mr. Ferguson was at home.
"Probably an
interviewer," said Mrs. Archie. "I suppose we shall get no peace =
for
a long time to come."
The door opened, =
and
the cook came in with a card. "'Renshaw Liggett,'" said Mrs. Arch=
ie
"I don't know him. Do you, Archie? It must be an interviewer. Ask him =
to
come in, Julia."
And in he came.
My knowledge of
chappies in general, after a fairly wide experience, is that some chappies =
seem
to kind of convey an atmosphere of unpleasantness the moment you come into
contact with them. Renshaw Liggett gave me this feeling directly he came in;
and when he fixed me with a sinister glance and said, "Mr. Ferguson?&q=
uot;
I felt inclined to say "Not guilty." I backed a step or two and
jerked my head towards Archie, and Renshaw turned the searchlight off me and
switched it onto him.
"You are Mr.
Archibald Ferguson, the artist?"
Archie nodded
pallidly, and Renshaw nodded, as much as to say that you couldn't deceive h=
im.
He produced a sheet of paper. It was the middle page of the Mail.
"You authori=
zed
the publication of this?"
Archie nodded aga=
in.
"I represent=
Mr.
Brackett. The publication of this most impudent fiction has caused Mr. Brac=
kett
extreme annoyance, and, as it might also lead to other and more serious
consequences, I must insist that a full denial be published without a momen=
t's
delay."
"What do you
mean?" cried Mrs. Archie. "Are you mad?"
She had been
standing, listening to the conversation in a sort of trance. Now she jumped
into the fight with a vim that turned Renshaw's attention to her in a secon=
d.
"No, madam, =
I am
not mad. Nor, despite the interested assertions of certain parties whom I n=
eed
not specify by name, is Mr. Brackett. It may be news to you, Mrs. Ferguson,
that an action is even now pending in New York, whereby certain parties are
attempting to show that my client, Mr. Brackett, is non compos and should be
legally restrained from exercising control over his property. Their case is
extremely weak, for even if we admit their contention that our client did, =
on
the eighteenth of June last, attempt to walk up Fifth Avenue in his pyjamas=
, we
shall be able to show that his action was the result of an election bet. Bu=
t as
the parties to whom I have alluded will undoubtedly snatch at every straw in
their efforts to prove that Mr. Brackett is mentally infirm, the prejudicial
effect of this publication cannot be over-estimated. Unless Mr. Brackett can
clear himself of the stigma of having given two thousand pounds for this
extraordinary production of an absolutely unknown artist, the strength of h=
is
case must be seriously shaken. I may add that my client's lavish patronage =
of
Art is already one of the main planks in the platform of the parties already
referred to. They adduce his extremely generous expenditure in this directi=
on
as evidence that he is incapable of a proper handling of his money. I need
scarcely point out with what sinister pleasure, therefore, they must have
contemplated--this."
And he looked at
"The Coming of Summer" as if it were a black beetle.
I must say, much =
as I
disliked the blighter, I couldn't help feeling that he had right on his sid=
e.
It hadn't occurred to me in quite that light before, but, considering it ca=
lmly
now, I could see that a man who would disgorge two thousand of the best for
Archie's Futurist masterpiece might very well step straight into the nut fa=
ctory,
and no questions asked.
Mrs. Archie came
right back at him, as game as you please.
"I am sorry =
for
Mr. Brackett's domestic troubles, but my husband can prove without difficul=
ty
that he did buy the picture. Can't you, dear?"
Archie, extremely=
white
about the gills, looked at the ceiling and at the floor and at me and Rensh=
aw
Liggett.
"No," he
said finally. "I can't. Because he didn't."
"Exactly,&qu=
ot;
said Renshaw, "and I must ask you to publish that statement in tomorro=
w's
papers without fail." He rose, and made for the door. "My client =
has
no objection to young artists advertising themselves, realizing that this i=
s an
age of strenuous competition, but he firmly refuses to permit them to do it=
at
his expense. Good afternoon."
And he legged it,
leaving behind him one of the most chunky silences I have ever been mixed up
in. For the life of me, I couldn't see who was to make the next remark. I w=
as
jolly certain that it wasn't going to be me.
Eventually Mrs.
Archie opened the proceedings.
"What does it
mean?"
Archie turned to =
me
with a sort of frozen calm.
"Reggie, wou=
ld
you mind stepping into the kitchen and asking Julia for this week's Funny
Slices? I know she has it."
He was right. She
unearthed it from a cupboard. I trotted back with it to the sitting room.
Archie took the paper from me, and held it out to his wife, Doughnuts
uppermost.
"Look!"=
he
said.
She looked.
"I do them. I
have done them every week for three years. No, don't speak yet. Listen. Thi=
s is
where all my money came from, all the money I lost when B. and O. P. Rails =
went
smash. And this is where the money came from to buy 'The Coming of Summer.'=
It
wasn't Brackett who bought it; it was myself."
Mrs. Archie was
devouring the Doughnuts with wide-open eyes. I caught a glimpse of them mys=
elf,
and only just managed not to laugh, for it was the set of pictures where Pa
Doughnut tries to fix the electric light, one of the very finest things dear
old Archie had ever done.
"I don't
understand," she said.
"I draw these
things. I have sold my soul."
"Archie!&quo=
t;
He winced, but st=
uck
to it bravely.
"Yes, I knew=
how
you would feel about it, and that was why I didn't dare to tell you, and wh=
y we
fixed up this story about old Brackett. I couldn't bear to live on you any
longer, and to see you roughing it here, when we might be having all the mo=
ney
we wanted."
Suddenly, like a
boiler exploding, she began to laugh.
"They're the
funniest things I ever saw in my life," she gurgled. "Mr. Pepper,=
do
look! He's trying to cut the electric wire with the scissors, and everything
blazes up. And you've been hiding this from me all that time!"
Archie goggled
dumbly. She dived at a table, and picked up a magazine, pointing to one of =
the
advertisement pages.
"Read!"=
she
cried. "Read it aloud."
And in a shaking
voice Archie read:
You think you are perfectly =
well,
don't you? You wake up in the morning and spring out =
of bed
and say to yourself that you have never been better in yo=
ur
life. You're wrong! Unless you are avoiding coffee as you =
would avoid
the man who always tells you the smart things his li=
ttle
boy said yesterday, and drinking =
&nb=
sp; SAFETY
FIRST MOLASSINE f=
or
breakfast, you cannot be =
&nb=
sp; Perfectly
Well.
It is a physical impossibili=
ty.
Coffee contains an appreciable quantity of the deadly =
drug
caffeine, and therefore----
"I wrote
that," she said. "And I wrote the advertisement of the Spiller Ba=
by
Food on page ninety-four, and the one about the Preeminent Breakfast Sausag=
e on
page eighty-six. Oh, Archie, dear, the torments I have been through, fearing
that you would some day find me out and despise me. I couldn't help it. I h=
ad
no private means, and I didn't make enough out of my poetry to keep me in h=
ats.
I learned to write advertisements four years ago at a correspondence school,
and I've been doing them ever since. And now I don't mind your knowing, now
that you have told me this perfectly splendid news. Archie!"
She rushed into h=
is
arms like someone charging in for a bowl of soup at a railway station buffe=
t.
And I drifted out. It seemed to me that this was a scene in which I was not=
on.
I sidled to the door, and slid forth. They didn't notice me. My experience =
is
that nobody ever does--much.
Well-meaning chappies at the club
sometimes amble up to me and tap me on the wishbone, and say "Reggie, =
old
top,"--my name's Reggie Pepper--"you ought to get married, old
man." Well, what I mean to say is, it's all very well, and I see their
point and all that sort of thing; but it takes two to make a marriage, and =
to
date I haven't met a girl who didn't seem to think the contract was too big=
to
be taken on.
Looking back, it
seems to me that I came nearer to getting over the home-plate with Ann Selby
than with most of the others. In fact, but for circumstances over which I h=
ad
no dashed control, I am inclined to think that we should have brought it of=
f.
I'm bound to say that, now that what the poet chappie calls the first fine
frenzy has been on the ice for awhile and I am able to consider the thing
calmly, I am deuced glad we didn't. She was one of those strong-minded girl=
s,
and I hate to think of what she would have done to me.
At the time, thou=
gh,
I was frightfully in love, and, for quite a while after she definitely gave=
me
the mitten, I lost my stroke at golf so completely that a child could have
given me a stroke a hole and got away with it. I was all broken up, and I
contend to this day that I was dashed badly treated.
Let me give you w=
hat
they call the data.
One day I was
lunching with Ann, and was just proposing to her as usual, when, instead of
simply refusing me, as she generally did, she fixed me with a thoughtful eye
and kind of opened her heart.
"Do you know,
Reggie, I am in doubt."
"Give me the
benefit of it," I said. Which I maintain was pretty good on the spur of
the moment, but didn't get a hand. She simply ignored it, and went on.
"Sometimes,&=
quot;
she said, "you seem to me entirely vapid and brainless; at other times=
you
say or do things which suggest that there are possibilities in you; that,
properly stimulated and encouraged, you might overcome the handicap of large
private means and do something worthwhile. I wonder if that is simply my
imagination?" She watched me very closely as she spoke.
"Rather not.=
You've
absolutely summed me up. With you beside me, stimulating and all that sort =
of
rot, don't you know, I should show a flash of speed which would astonish
you."
"I wish I co=
uld
be certain."
"Take a chan=
ce
on it."
She shook her hea=
d.
"I must be c=
ertain.
Marriage is such a gamble. I have just been staying with my sister Hilda and
her husband----"
"Dear old Ha=
rold
Bodkin. I know him well. In fact, I've a standing invitation to go down the=
re
and stay as long as I like. Harold is one of my best pals. Harold is a cork=
er.
Good old Harold is----"
"I would rat=
her
you didn't eulogize him, Reggie. I am extremely angry with Harold. He is ma=
king
Hilda perfectly miserable."
"What on ear=
th
do you mean? Harold wouldn't dream of hurting a fly. He's one of those drea=
my,
sentimental chumps who----"
"It is preci=
sely
his sentimentality which is at the bottom of the whole trouble. You know, of
course, that Hilda is not his first wife?"
"That's righ=
t.
His first wife died about five years ago."
"He still
cherishes her memory."
"Very sporti=
ng
of him."
"Is it! If y=
ou
were a girl, how would you like to be married to a man who was always making
you bear in mind that you were only number two in his affections; a man who=
se
idea of a pleasant conversation was a string of anecdotes illustrating what=
a
dear woman his first wife was. A man who expected you to upset all your pla=
ns
if they clashed with some anniversary connected with his other marriage?&qu=
ot;
"That does s=
ound
pretty rotten. Does Harold do all that?"
"That's only=
a
small part of what he does. Why, if you will believe me, every evening at s=
even
o'clock he goes and shuts himself up in a little room at the top of the hou=
se,
and meditates."
"What on ear=
th
does he do that for?"
"Apparently =
his
first wife died at seven in the evening. There is a portrait of her in the
room. I believe he lays flowers in front of it. And Hilda is expected to gr=
eet
him on his return with a happy smile."
"Why doesn't=
she
kick?"
"I have been
trying to persuade her to, but she won't. She just pretends she doesn't min=
d.
She has a nervous, sensitive temperament, and the thing is slowly crushing =
her.
Don't talk to me of Harold."
Considering that =
she
had started him as a topic, I thought this pretty unjust. I didn't want to =
talk
of Harold. I wanted to talk about myself.
"Well, what =
has
all this got to do with your not wanting to marry me?" I said.
"Nothing, ex=
cept
that it is an illustration of the risks a woman runs when she marries a man=
of
a certain type."
"Great Scott!
You surely don't class me with Harold?"
"Yes, in a w=
ay
you are very much alike. You have both always had large private means, and =
have
never had the wholesome discipline of work."
"But, dash i=
t,
Harold, on your showing, is an absolute nut. Why should you think that I wo=
uld
be anything like that?"
"There's alw=
ays
the risk."
A hot idea came to
me.
"Look here,
Ann," I said, "Suppose I pull off some stunt which only a deuced
brainy chappie could get away with? Would you marry me then?"
"Certainly. =
What
do you propose to do?"
"Do! What do=
I
propose to do! Well, er, to be absolutely frank, at the moment I don't quite
know."
"You never w=
ill
know, Reggie. You're one of the idle rich, and your brain, if you ever had =
one,
has atrophied."
Well, that seemed=
to
me to put the lid on it. I didn't mind a heart-to-heart talk, but this was =
mere
abuse. I changed the subject.
"What would =
you
like after that fish?" I said coldly.
You know how it is
when you get an idea. For awhile it sort of simmers inside you, and then
suddenly it sizzles up like a rocket, and there you are, right up against i=
t.
That's what happened now. I went away from that luncheon, vaguely determine=
d to
pull off some stunt which would prove that I was right there with the gray
matter, but without any clear notion of what I was going to do. Side by side
with this in my mind was the case of dear old Harold. When I wasn't broodin=
g on
the stunt, I was brooding on Harold. I was fond of the good old lad, and I =
hated
the idea of his slowly wrecking the home purely by being a chump. And all o=
f a
sudden the two things clicked together like a couple of chemicals, and ther=
e I
was with a corking plan for killing two birds with one stone--putting one
across that would startle and impress Ann, and at the same time healing the
breach between Harold and Hilda.
My idea was that,=
in
a case like this, it's no good trying opposition. What you want is to work =
it
so that the chappie quits of his own accord. You want to egg him on to
overdoing the thing till he gets so that he says to himself, "Enough!
Never again!" That was what was going to happen to Harold.
When you're going=
to
do a thing, there's nothing like making a quick start. I wrote to Harold
straight away, proposing myself for a visit. And Harold wrote back telling =
me
to come right along.
Harold and Hilda
lived alone in a large house. I believe they did a good deal of entertainin=
g at
times, but on this occasion I was the only guest. The only other person of =
note
in the place was Ponsonby, the butler.
Of course, if Har=
old
had been an ordinary sort of chappie, what I had come to do would have been=
a
pretty big order. I don't mind many things, but I do hesitate to dig into my
host's intimate private affairs. But Harold was such a simple-minded Johnni=
e,
so grateful for a little sympathy and advice, that my job wasn't so very
difficult.
It wasn't as if he
minded talking about Amelia, which was his first wife's name. The difficulty
was to get him to talk of anything else. I began to understand what Ann mea=
nt
by saying it was tough on Hilda.
I'm bound to say =
the
old boy was clay in my hands. People call me a chump, but Harold was a
super-chump, and I did what I liked with him. The second morning of my visi=
t,
after breakfast, he grabbed me by the arm.
"This way,
Reggie. I'm just going to show old Reggie Amelia's portrait, dear."
There was a little room all by itself on the top floor. He explained to me that it had been his studio. At one time Harold used to do a bit of painting in an amateur way.<= o:p>
"There!"=
; he
said, pointing at the portrait. "I did that myself, Reggie. It was away
being cleaned when you were here last. It's like dear Amelia, isn't it?&quo=
t;
I suppose it was,=
in
a way. At any rate, you could recognize the likeness when you were told who=
it
was supposed to be.
He sat down in fr=
ont
of it, and gave it the thoughtful once-over.
"Do you know,
Reggie, old top, sometimes when I sit here, I feel as if Amelia were back
again."
"It would be=
a
bit awkward for you if she was."
"How do you
mean?"
"Well, old l=
ad,
you happen to be married to someone else."
A look of childli=
ke
enthusiasm came over his face.
"Reggie, I w=
ant
to tell you how splendid Hilda is. Lots of other women might object to my s=
till
cherishing Amelia's memory, but Hilda has been so nice about it from the
beginning. She understands so thoroughly."
I hadn't much bre=
ath
left after that, but I used what I had to say: "She doesn't object?&qu=
ot;
"Not a
bit," said Harold. "It makes everything so pleasant."
When I had recove=
red
a bit, I said, "What do you mean by everything?"
"Well,"=
he
said, "for instance, I come up here every evening at seven and--er--th=
ink
for a few minutes."
"A few
minutes?!"
"What do you
mean?"
"Well, a few
minutes isn't long."
"But I always
have my cocktail at a quarter past."
"You could
postpone it."
"And Ponsonby
likes us to start dinner at seven-thirty."
"What on ear=
th
has Ponsonby to do with it?"
"Well, he li=
kes
to get off by nine, you know. I think he goes off and plays bowls at the
madhouse. You see, Reggie, old man, we have to study Ponsonby a little. He's
always on the verge of giving notice--in fact, it was only by coaxing him on
one or two occasions that we got him to stay on--and he's such a treasure t=
hat
I don't know what we should do if we lost him. But, if you think that I oug=
ht
to stay longer----?"
"Certainly I=
do.
You ought to do a thing like this properly, or not at all."
He sighed.
"It's a
frightful risk, but in future we'll dine at eight."
It seemed to me t=
hat
there was a suspicion of a cloud on Ponsonby's shining morning face, when t=
he
news was broken to him that for the future he couldn't unleash himself on t=
he
local bowling talent as early as usual, but he made no kick, and the new or=
der
of things began.
My next offensive
movement I attribute to a flash of absolute genius. I was glancing through a
photograph album in the drawing-room before lunch, when I came upon a face
which I vaguely remembered. It was one of those wide, flabby faces, with
bulging eyes, and something about it struck me as familiar. I consulted Har=
old,
who came in at that moment.
"That?"
said Harold. "That's Percy." He gave a slight shudder. "Amel=
ia's
brother, you know. An awful fellow. I haven't seen him for years."
Then I placed Per= cy. I had met him once or twice in the old days, and I had a brainwave. Percy w= as everything that poor old Harold disliked most. He was hearty at breakfast, a confirmed back-slapper, and a man who prodded you in the chest when he spoke to you.<= o:p>
"You haven't
seen him for years!" I said in a shocked voice.
"Thank
heaven!" said Harold devoutly.
I put down the
photograph album, and looked at him in a deuced serious way. "Then it's
high time you asked him to come here."
Harold blanched.
"Reggie, old man, you don't know what you are saying. You can't rememb=
er
Percy. I wish you wouldn't say these things, even in fun."
"I'm not say=
ing
it in fun. Of course, it's none of my business, but you have paid me the
compliment of confiding in me about Amelia, and I feel justified in speakin=
g.
All I can say is that, if you cherish her memory as you say you do, you sho=
w it
in a very strange way. How you can square your neglect of Percy with your
alleged devotion to Amelia's memory, beats me. It seems to me that you have=
no
choice. You must either drop the whole thing and admit that your love for h=
er
is dead, or else you must stop this infernal treatment of her favorite brot=
her.
You can't have it both ways."
He looked at me l=
ike
a hunted stag. "But, Reggie, old man! Percy! He asks riddles at
breakfast."
"I don't
care."
"Hilda can't
stand him."
"It doesn't
matter. You must invite him. It's not a case of what you like or don't like.
It's your duty."
He struggled with=
his
feelings for a bit. "Very well," he said in a crushed sort of voi=
ce.
At dinner that ni=
ght
he said to Hilda: "I'm going to ask Amelia's brother down to spend a f=
ew
days. It is so long since we have seen him."
Hilda didn't answ=
er
at once. She looked at him in rather a curious sort of way, I thought.
"Very well, dear," she said.
I was deuced sorry
for the poor girl, but I felt like a surgeon. She would be glad later on, f=
or I
was convinced that in a very short while poor old Harold must crack under t=
he
strain, especially after I had put across the coup which I was meditating f=
or
the very next evening.
It was quite simp=
le.
Simple, that is to say, in its working, but a devilish brainy thing for a
chappie to have thought out. If Ann had really meant what she had said at l=
unch
that day, and was prepared to stick to her bargain and marry me as soon as I
showed a burst of intelligence, she was mine.
What it came to w=
as
that, if dear old Harold enjoyed meditating in front of Amelia's portrait, =
he
was jolly well going to have all the meditating he wanted, and a bit over, =
for
my simple scheme was to lurk outside till he had gone into the little room =
on
the top floor, and then, with the aid of one of those jolly little wedges w=
hich
you use to keep windows from rattling, see to it that the old boy remained
there till they sent out search parties.
There wasn't a fl=
aw
in my reasoning. When Harold didn't roll in at the sound of the dinner gong,
Hilda would take it for granted that he was doing an extra bit of meditating
that night, and her pride would stop her sending out a hurry call for him. =
As
for Harold, when he found that all was not well with the door, he would
probably yell with considerable vim. But it was odds against anyone hearing
him. As for me, you might think that I was going to suffer owing to the
probable postponement of dinner. Not so, but far otherwise, for on the nigh=
t I had
selected for the coup I was dining out at the neighboring inn with my old
college chum Freddie Meadowes. It is true that Freddie wasn't going to be
within fifty miles of the place on that particular night, but they weren't =
to
know that.
Did I describe the
peculiar isolation of that room on the top floor, where the portrait was? I
don't think I did. It was, as a matter of fact, the only room in those part=
s,
for, in the days when he did his amateur painting, old Harold was strong on=
the
artistic seclusion business and hated noise, and his studio was the only ro=
om
in use on that floor.
In short, to sum =
up,
the thing was a cinch.
Punctually at ten
minutes to seven, I was in readiness on the scene. There was a recess with a
curtain in front of it a few yards from the door, and there I waited, fondl=
ing
my little wedge, for Harold to walk up and allow the proceedings to start. =
It
was almost pitch-dark, and that made the time of waiting seem longer.
Presently--I seemed to have been there longer than ten minutes--I heard ste=
ps
approaching. They came past where I stood, and went on into the room. The d=
oor
closed, and I hopped out and sprinted up to it, and the next moment I had t=
he good
old wedge under the wood--as neat a job as you could imagine. And then I
strolled downstairs, and toddled off to the inn.
I didn't hurry ov=
er
my dinner, partly because the browsing and sluicing at the inn was really
astonishingly good for a roadhouse and partly because I wanted to give Haro=
ld
plenty of time for meditation. I suppose it must have been a couple of hour=
s or
more when I finally turned in at the front door. Somebody was playing the p=
iano
in the drawing room. It could only be Hilda who was playing, and I had doub=
ts as
to whether she wanted company just then--mine, at any rate.
Eventually I deci=
ded
to risk it, for I wanted to hear the latest about dear old Harold, so in I
went, and it wasn't Hilda at all; it was Ann Selby.
"Hello,"=
; I
said. "I didn't know you were coming down here." It seemed so odd,
don't you know, as it hadn't been more than ten days or so since her last
visit.
"Good evenin=
g,
Reggie," she said.
"What's been
happening?" I asked.
"How do you =
know
anything has been happening?"
"I guessed
it."
"Well, you're
quite right, as it happens, Reggie. A good deal has been happening." S=
he
went to the door, and looked out, listening. Then she shut it, and came bac=
k.
"Hilda has revolted!"
"Revolted?&q=
uot;
"Yes, put her
foot down--made a stand--refused to go on meekly putting up with Harold's
insane behavior."
"I don't
understand."
She gave me a loo=
k of
pity. "You always were so dense, Reggie. I will tell you the whole thi=
ng
from the beginning. You remember what I spoke to you about, one day when we
were lunching together? Well, I don't suppose you have noticed it--I know w=
hat
you are--but things have been getting steadily worse. For one thing, Harold
insisted on lengthening his visits to the top room, and naturally Ponsonby
complained. Hilda tells me that she had to plead with him to induce him to =
stay
on. Then the climax came. I don't know if you recollect Amelia's brother Pe=
rcy?
You must have met him when she was alive--a perfectly unspeakable person wi=
th a
loud voice and overpowering manners. Suddenly, out of a blue sky, Harold
announced his intention of inviting him to stay. It was the last straw. This
afternoon I received a telegram from poor Hilda, saying that she was leaving
Harold and coming to stay with me, and a few hours later the poor child arr=
ived
at my apartment."
You mustn't suppo=
se
that I stood listening silently to this speech. Every time she seemed to be
going to stop for breath I tried to horn in and tell her all these things w=
hich
had been happening were not mere flukes, as she seemed to think, but parts =
of a
deuced carefully planned scheme of my own. Every time I'd try to interrupt,=
Ann
would wave me down, and carry on without so much as a semi-colon.
But at this point=
I
did manage a word in. "I know, I know, I know! I did it all. It was I =
who
suggested to Harold that he should lengthen the meditations, and insisted on
his inviting Percy to stay."
I had hardly got =
the
words out, when I saw that they were not making the hit I had anticipated. =
She
looked at me with an expression of absolute scorn, don't you know.
"Well, reall=
y,
Reggie," she said at last, "I never have had a very high opinion =
of
your intelligence, as you know, but this is a revelation to me. What motive=
you
can have had, unless you did it in a spirit of pure mischief----" She
stopped, and there was a glare of undiluted repulsion in her eyes.
"Reggie! I can't believe it! Of all the things I loathe most, a practi=
cal
joker is the worst. Do you mean to tell me you did all this as a practical
joke?"
"Great Scott,
no! It was like this----"
I paused for a ba=
re
second to collect my thoughts, so as to put the thing clearly to her. I mig=
ht
have known what would happen. She dashed right in and collared the
conversation.
"Well, never
mind. As it happens, there is no harm done. Quite the reverse, in fact. Hil=
da
left a note for Harold telling him what she had done and where she had gone=
and
why she had gone, and Harold found it. The result was that, after Hilda had
been with me for some time, in he came in a panic and absolutely grovelled
before the dear child. It seems incredible but he had apparently had no not=
ion
that his absurd behavior had met with anything but approval from Hilda. He =
went
on as if he were mad. He was beside himself. He clutched his hair and stamp=
ed about
the room, and then he jumped at the telephone and called this house and got
Ponsonby and told him to go straight to the little room on the top floor and
take Amelia's portrait down. I thought that a little unnecessary myself, bu=
t he
was in such a whirl of remorse that it was useless to try and get him to be
rational. So Hilda was consoled, and he calmed down, and we all came down h=
ere
in the automobile. So you see----"
At this moment the
door opened, and in came Harold.
"I say--hell=
o,
Reggie, old man--I say, it's a funny thing, but we can't find Ponsonby
anywhere."
There are moments=
in
a chappie's life, don't you know, when Reason, so to speak, totters, as it
were, on its bally throne. This was one of them. The situation seemed someh=
ow
to have got out of my grip. I suppose, strictly speaking, I ought, at this
juncture, to have cleared my throat and said in an audible tone, "Haro=
ld,
old top, I know where Ponsonby is." But somehow I couldn't. Something
seemed to keep the words back. I just stood there and said nothing.
"Nobody seem=
s to
have seen anything of him," said Harold. "I wonder where he can h=
ave
got to."
Hilda came in,
looking so happy I hardly recognized her. I remember feeling how strange it=
was
that anybody could be happy just then.
"I know,&quo=
t;
she said. "Of course! Doesn't he always go off to the inn and play bow=
ls
at this time?"
"Why, of
course," said Harold. "So he does."
And he asked Ann =
to
play something on the piano. And pretty soon we had settled down to a regul=
ar
jolly musical evening. Ann must have played a matter of two or three thousa=
nd
tunes, when Harold got up.
"By the way,=
"
he said. "I suppose he did what I told him about the picture before he
went out. Let's go and see."
"Oh, Harold,
what does it matter?" asked Hilda.
"Don't be si=
lly,
Harold," said Ann.
I would have said=
the
same thing, only I couldn't say anything.
Harold wasn't to =
be
stopped. He led the way out of the room and upstairs, and we all trailed af=
ter
him. We had just reached the top floor, when Hilda stopped, and said
"Hark!"
It was a voice.
"Hi!" it
said. "Hi!"
Harold legged it =
to
the door of the studio. "Ponsonby?"
From within came =
the
voice again, and I have never heard anything to touch the combined pathos,
dignity and indignation it managed to condense into two words.
"Yes, sir?&q=
uot;
"What on ear=
th
are you doing in there?"
"I came here,
sir, in accordance with your instructions on the telephone, and----"
Harold rattled the
door. "The darned thing's stuck."
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"How on earth
did that happen?"
"I could not
say, sir."
"How can the
door have stuck like this?" said Ann.
Somebody--I suppo=
se it
was me, though the voice didn't sound familiar-- spoke. "Perhaps there=
's a
wedge under it," said this chappie.
"A wedge? Wh=
at
do you mean?"
"One of those little wedges you use to keep windows from rattling, don't you know."<= o:p>
"But why----?
You're absolutely right, Reggie, old man, there is!"
He yanked it out,=
and
flung the door open, and out came Ponsonby, looking like Lady Macbeth.
"I wish to g=
ive
notice, sir," he said, "and I should esteem it a favor if I might=
go
to the pantry and procure some food, as I am extremely hungry."
And he passed from
our midst, with Hilda after him, saying: "But, Ponsonby! Be reasonable,
Ponsonby!"
Ann Selby turned =
on
me with a swish. "Reggie," she said, "did you shut Ponsonby =
in
there?"
"Well, yes, =
as a
matter of fact, I did."
"But why?&qu=
ot;
asked Harold.
"Well, to be
absolutely frank, old top, I thought it was you."
"You thought=
it
was me? But why--what did you want to lock me in for?"
I hesitated. It w=
as a
delicate business telling him the idea. And while I was hesitating, Ann jum=
ped
in.
"I can tell =
you
why, Harold. It was because Reggie belongs to that sub-species of humanity
known as practical jokers. This sort of thing is his idea of humor."
"Humor! Losi=
ng
us a priceless butler," said Harold. "If that's your idea
of----"
Hilda came back, =
pale
and anxious. "Harold, dear, do come and help me reason with Ponsonby. =
He
is in the pantry gnawing a cold chicken, and he only stops to say 'I give
notice.'"
"Yes," =
said
Ann. "Go, both of you. I wish to speak to Reggie alone."
That's how I came=
to
lose Ann. At intervals during her remarks I tried to put my side of the cas=
e,
but it was no good. She wouldn't listen. And presently something seemed to =
tell
me that now was the time to go to my room and pack. Half an hour later I sl=
id
silently into the night.
Wasn't it Shakesp=
eare
or somebody who said that the road to Hell--or words to that effect--was pa=
ved
with good intentions? If it was Shakespeare, it just goes to prove what they
are always saying about him--that he knew a bit. Take it from one who knows,
the old boy was absolutely right.